The Once and Future King
by Shadowfax1
Summary: Lois and Clark in a different time and place


The Once and Future King  
  
by Shadowfax  
  
Description: Lois and Clark in a different time and place.  
  
Fantasy  
  
Rated PG-13  
  
This story is set in a fictitious time, and although it takes place   
on Earth, no attempt has been made to achieve accuracy pertaining to   
Earth history. Don't expect the characters, their language or behavior,   
or their style of clothing to conform with any known historical period,   
since there would be a number of anachronisms, such as, for example,   
Clark's eyeglasses.  
  
All standard disclaimers apply. Characters in this story (except those   
of my own creation and as otherwise noted in the credits at the end) are   
the property of DC Comics, Warner Bros and December 3rd Productions Ltd;   
no infringement of any property rights is intended by their use.  
  
  
*********  
Prologue:  
*********  
  
I love him.   
  
I love him and only him and I will never love anyone else in my whole   
life, even if he never loves me back.   
  
But he *does* love me; he loves me, too. I know it because I saw it in   
his eyes . . . I felt it when he held me in his arms.  
  
I love him and he loves me and we will be bound together forever,   
regardless of whom we each marry or if we each marry. We will be   
together in our hearts and in our souls as long as we both shall live.  
  
***************************  
Part 1: Looking for a Hero  
***************************  
  
"Lois! Lady Lois . . . wait!"   
  
Lois slowed her pace, turning reluctantly towards the speaker. "Hi,   
Cat," she said woodenly.  
  
"Is it true?" asked Lady Catherine, breathless after her sprint to catch   
up to Lois, ". . . what they're saying? Has the King really asked   
permission to have your hand in marriage?"  
  
"Asked," affirmed Lois sadly, "and granted."  
  
"I can't believe it. After all this time-! If I were to tell you the   
number of women who've set their caps for him - beautiful women, too -   
and he's never fallen for any of them. Lady Antoinette . . . the Earl   
Tailor's daughter . . . even Lord Lang's eldest, Lady Lana. It was said   
he had a preference for her once, but it came to nothing." She gave Lois   
a sly look. "I even took a shot at him myself . . . ." Lois nodded -   
*that* she could believe. Lady Catherine "took a shot" at *every* man.   
"He's so handsome, too," Lady Catherine continued. "And the finest   
figure of a man I have *ever* seen. You won't mind producing an heir   
with *him*." She paused, suddenly noticing Lois's lack of enthusiasm.   
"Don't you agree, Lois?" she asked. "You've seen him . . . ."  
  
Lois nodded, although she hadn't "seen" him, not really, anyway. When   
the King of England and his court had come to Metropolishire, she had   
barely looked at any of them, her thoughts dominated by the man who had   
stolen her heart three weeks earlier. "Do you know anything about   
Sir Lancelot?" she asked.  
  
Lady Catherine looked surprised by the abrupt change in subject. "Know   
anything?" she said. "Of course not - who does? He came out of nowhere   
to help us when we needed him, after the Court persuaded the King to lay   
down his arms and retire from active combat. The King never goes into   
battle now, since he's considered to be too valuable to risk . . . but   
you know that. But to answer your question about Sir Lancelot: no one   
knows who he is or where he lives. We know only that he has super   
strength, fights like ten men possessed, and says that he's come to fight   
for truth-"  
  
"-and justice!" finished Lois. She clasped her hands together, her eyes   
shining. "For *everyone* . . . not just the rich and wellborn! That's so   
honourable!"  
  
Lady Catherine looked at her oddly. "It's hardly original, Lois," she   
said. "It's what the King himself says."  
  
"Does he?" said Lois vaguely. "How nice."  
  
"Yes," continued Cat. "He's talking about making the conference table   
for his knights round so that there will be no hierarchy. Everyone   
equal before God and men."  
  
But Lois was no longer listening. "Here comes my sister."  
  
"Come to fetch me away, no doubt," said Lady Catherine, still eyeing Lois   
oddly.  
  
Lady Lucy had reached them by this time. "Lady Catherine, will you-?"  
  
"You've come to tell me that your mother wants to see me," said Lady   
Catherine. "I promised her that I'd fill her in on the court gossip.   
I have to go. Are you going to go riding today, Lois?"  
  
"Later," said Lois absently.   
  
Nodding pleasantly to the two sisters, Lady Catherine left with a swish   
of her skirts.  
  
"Lois, Mom and Dad told me what happened," Lucy said as soon as Lady   
Catherine was out of earshot. "You can't be serious about refusing the   
King! It'll ruin us!"   
  
"Not you too, Lucy," Lois scowled. "You can't want me to marry a man I   
don't love. After all we've talked about . . . ."  
  
"That was silly the way we used to talk about marrying for love," said   
Lucy. "You know we don't have that luxury. And besides, why not fall   
in love with the King? You always used to fall for powerful men, anyway,   
before you closed yourself off from men after Sir Claude-" she broke off   
when she received a fulminating glare from her sister. "And you're too   
picky, anyway," she continued boldly after a tiny hesitation. "You're   
always looking for the perfect relationship, the perfect man. You're   
never going to find him-"  
  
"But I have-" Lois blurted out.  
  
Lucy stared in surprise. "Who?"  
  
Lois half-turned from her sister and gazed at some point in the distance.   
"Sir Lancelot," she said, her breast heaving.  
  
"You've seen him? When? I didn't know he had ever come to   
Metropolishire."  
  
"He did," said Lois. "Three weeks ago." In a rush, she proceeded to   
tell her sister how she had happened to meet Sir Lancelot. She had gone   
out riding one day, alone, having managed to shake her groom. She had   
had a special purpose in wishing to be without an escort that day: she   
was planning to explore the Haunted Wood, forbidden to her due to its   
reputation for being habited by the spirits of men who had been ambushed   
and massacred in a long-ago war. She was convinced that the Wood wasn't   
truly haunted, but was being used as a hideout by a gang of thieves, who   
were using the Wood's reputation of being haunted to frighten away the   
curious.  
  
"You rode out there alone, Lois? Are you *crazy*? If you were right,   
you could have been set upon-"  
  
"I *was* right!" said Lois, casting a triumphant look at her sister.   
"There *is* a gang of thieves hiding in the Wood. But I knew I wasn't   
in any danger; there's no horse alive that can outrun Silken Thread."  
  
"That's true," said Lucy thoughtfully. "So how did you meet   
Sir Lancelot?"  
  
"He rescued me," said Lois simply. "I was set upon by the gang of   
ruffians-"  
  
"But how could that happen?" Lucy objected. "You just said that   
Silken Thread could outrun all other horses."   
  
"I had dismounted," said Lois, ignoring another "are you crazy" look from   
her sister. "I wanted to get closer to a glen that I believed hid the   
thieves' lodge, and the undergrowth was too thick for my horse to walk   
through. Unfortunately, I was spotted by one of the ruffians. Several   
of them came after me." She paused, while Lucy waited breathlessly to   
hear what happened. "And then . . . *he* came!" Lois said reverently.   
"It was three men against one, but he fought like ten. He rousted the   
three, chased them all away. And then he turned to me and picked me   
up - he's so strong, Lucy . . . they say no man can hurt him, but he was   
so gentle with me - and he set me on my horse. Then he said - and his   
voice was so kind - he said, 'I don't think you belong *here*.' And I   
told him that I'm from Lane Castle and he said that I should go back   
there. I asked him what he was going to do and he said that he was going   
to track down the thieves and turn them over to King Arthur for justice.   
He had come to the Haunted Wood for the express purpose of finding them.'  
  
"He rode back partway to the castle with me to make sure that I got home   
safely and we talked and he told me some of his ideas for enforcing   
justice and then I rode away and I've never seen him since, but, Lucy-"   
Lois paused for breath, "the moment he held me in his arms, I *knew*   
that I love him and he loves me and I will never love anyone but him my   
whole life."  
  
Lucy was silent. Finally she said, a little sadly, "Lois . . . ."  
  
"I know, I know," said Lois crossly. "I have to forget about him and   
do my duty and marry the King. His asking for my hand is supposed to be   
such an 'honour' to our family - phaugh! I don't think it *is* such a   
great honour. *You and I* are descended from one of the oldest families   
in England, granddaughters of a king ourselves, Lucy, and our father is   
the brilliant strategist who pulled together the Hobbes's factions.   
It's *our family* who honours *him*."   
  
"Shhh, Lois! Don't talk so loud," Lucy whispered, half shocked, half   
amused.   
  
It's too bad the King just happened to be in Metropolishire at this   
time," Lois added angrily. "The same day that I met Sir Lancelot we   
received the King's Messenger, who told us that we were about to be   
honoured by a visit from His Royal Highness. If only he hadn't come . . .   
if only I had had another chance to see Sir Lancelot before the King   
asked for my hand." She clenched her fists.   
  
If only she had been able to exchange vows with Sir Lancelot, if only   
she had been safely betrothed, even married, before the King had met   
her . . . !   
  
"Maybe the King will change his mind about marrying me . . . decide to   
withdraw his offer," she said with determined optimism.  
  
"You know he can't do that, Lois," Lucy looked gravely at her sister,   
". . . even if he wanted to. And I don't think he wants to." She gave   
Lois a sly look. "I saw him come into the Great Hall, Lois. As soon   
as he entered, he started looking around the room, and when he saw   
*you*, he stopped walking and whispered something to one of his men.   
We found out later that he was asking who you were. And then a few   
minutes later, Mom and Dad took you up to him and-"  
  
"-and presented me to him," Lois interrupted. They had told her that   
the King hadn't been able to keep his eyes off her, but she wouldn't   
know, since she hadn't raised her gaze to look at him. She hadn't   
dreamed that he would be asking her father for permission to marry her,   
or she would have at least looked him over.   
  
"And by sunset he had asked Dad if he could marry you," Lucy finished.   
"Don't you think that's romantic, Lois? He obviously fell in love with   
you at first sight!"  
  
"How nice for *him*, that *he* can marry for love," said Lois waspishly.   
"But what about *me*?"  
  
"Don't you think you could fall in love with him, Lois? Don't you think   
he's cute?"   
  
Lois shrugged. "I didn't really look at him," she said carelessly.   
  
"Well, *I* looked at him, and . . . we're talking *major* hunk here,   
Lois! Your Sir Lancelot can't hold a candle to him, I'll bet. Is   
Sir Lancelot handsome?"  
  
Lois hesitated. "I don't know if he's *handsome*," she said. "He was   
wearing the helmet so I didn't see his face. But I saw his eyes, Lucy.   
The kindest, most gentle eyes in the world, for all his ferocity in   
dealing with the King's enemies . . . and let me tell you, he's *some*   
fighter, too! And his figure! Cat said that the King is a fine figure   
of a man-"  
  
"-he is-"  
  
"-but he can't possibly be as fine a man as Sir Lancelot!"  
  
  
************************************  
  
Lois escaped to the stables soon afterwards, and eluding her groom, set   
off over the fields at a mad gallop. She hadn't ridden far when she   
heard the sound of hooves behind her, and turning, saw a man on a   
powerful grey stallion racing swiftly after her. Not recognizing the   
horse, she realised that the man must be one of the King's coterie.   
  
She had half a mind to gallop off, certain that Silver Thread would be   
able to leave the man's mount in the dust, but curiosity impelled her   
to rein in her horse and wait for the rider. As he approached, she   
looked the horse over, noting with approval his broad chest and powerful   
legs, the strong, smooth back and muscular, well-rounded rump. Her eyes   
traveling upward, she noted also the refined head and the kindly brown   
eyes. Altogether a magnificent creature, she concluded. The King and   
his men obviously appreciated good horseflesh. And maybe it was just   
as well that she hadn't tried to run away from him - he looked like he   
could give Silver Thread a run for his money.  
  
"Lady Lois . . . ." said a voice, jerking Lois's attention to the rider.   
She looked up into a pair of brown eyes rimmed with eyeglasses, and saw   
that the man was watching her with amusement not unmixed with admiration.   
"You like my horse?" the man asked as his mount fell into step beside   
hers.  
  
"He has the blood of the horses from the south," said Lois quickly,   
feeling strangely flustered by the stranger's scrutiny.  
  
The stranger nodded. "So does yours," he said, giving Silver Thread   
an appraising stare. His gaze returned to Lois. "He's probably so   
fast that you feel safe riding him out alone the way you do. But . . .   
do you think it's wise for you to ride out completely unattended like   
this?"  
  
The man's voice was gentle, but Lois felt stung by his words. "Who are   
*you* to tell me what to do?" she cried, the blood mantling her cheeks.  
  
He looked startled for a minute, but then he said mildly, "I just don't   
want to see you get hurt."  
  
"Thanks for your concern, but I'm quite capable of taking care of   
myself!" Lois flashed.  
  
"I'm sure you are," said the stranger gravely. "But don't you think   
that in your new position as the King's affianced bride, you may be a   
target for-"  
  
"The King's affianced bride!" said Lois bitterly. "Faugh!"  
  
The stranger looked distinctly taken aback. "You don't want to   
marry . . . the King?" he asked after a brief hesitation.  
  
"Marry the King?? Of *course* I don't want to marry the King!"   
exclaimed Lois. "I don't even *know* the man and he barges into our   
castle and makes arrangements with *my father* to marry me! They tell   
me that he's in love with me, but he didn't make any attempt to let me  
get to know him or to consult me about my feelings or to find out   
whether I could ever possibly love *him*, or *anything*!"  
  
The stranger took one hand off the reins and adjusted his glasses   
thoughtfully. He seemed disconcerted somehow. "That was obviously a   
mistake on his part . . . ." he said, his voice odd. He added   
cautiously, "But maybe after you get to know him you'll find that he's   
not so bad . . . ."  
  
Lois shook her head mournfully. "I don't think so," she said, her voice   
low. She knew she shouldn't be talking to him like this, one of the   
King's men, but there was something about the stranger that invited her   
confidences. Maybe it was the way he fixed his brown eyes on her face   
and listened patiently to hear what she was going to say next. Or maybe   
it was his air of quiet acceptance. Whatever it was, she found herself   
opening up to him and telling him things that she would ordinarily never   
have told anyone but Lucy.  
  
"Maybe you'll learn to love him . . . ." the stranger suggested.  
  
"I don't think so," Lois said again.  
  
"Why not? Unless you've already fallen in love with someone else . . . ."   
Lois said nothing, and the stranger took a quick breath. "You haven't,   
have you?" he asked. His voice sounded strangled. Lois nodded sadly.   
"Are you sure?" he asked, the light dying from his eyes. Lois nodded   
again.  
  
"I will never love anyone else in my whole life," she said.  
  
Her air of finality must have convinced the stranger, for he didn't   
reply and they rode together in silence for a few minutes, the stranger   
seemingly subdued. Finally he spoke again, first clearing his throat.   
"Lois, the King isn't an ogre," he said quietly. "He won't force you   
to marry him if your heart lies with another. He'll tell your father   
of your rejection of his suit-"  
  
"No!" cried Lois in alarm. "In the first place, I haven't rejected the   
King's suit - I haven't even seen him. And in the second place . . . I   
can't go to the King and tell him that I'm rejecting his offer of   
marriage!"  
  
"Why not?"  
  
"I just . . . well, I just *couldn't*! And, besides, it would dishonour   
our family . . . and the King might hold a grudge-"  
  
"No dishonour will come to you or your family," the stranger assured her.   
"The King will see to that. He'll hold no grudge. And you don't have   
to go to the King and tell him that his suit is rejected."  
  
"Why-?" Lois looked at him in surprise, her eyes narrowing. "You'll   
tell him," she guessed.  
  
"Well, hmm . . . ." the stranger gave her a sad half-smile.  
  
"Why would you do this for me?" asked Lois suspiciously. "What's in it   
for you?"  
  
"Let's just say that I don't want to see a lady made unhappy."  
  
Lois digested this in silence for a few minutes. "I don't know . . . ."   
she said finally, taking a deep breath. "Are you sure that the King   
won't-"  
  
"He won't hold it against you," said the stranger, looking away, off into   
the distance. "And then you'll be free to marry the man you've fallen in   
love with." He added something under his breath that sounded like,   
"lucky."  
  
But Lois's face had clouded. "Marry?" she said.   
  
"Yes." The stranger looked at her. "That would be your intention wouldn't   
it?" He studied her face. Lois averted her head, biting her lip.   
"Unless-" a suspicion crossed the stranger's mind, "-he's not already   
married, is he? Lois? Lois?"  
  
"No, I-" Lois's words caught in her throat. "No. At least, not that I   
know of. I've never heard-. Wait." She looked at the stranger   
speculatively. "If you're from Camelot, from the court, then perhaps   
you would know. Do you know anything about-" she blushed, "Sir Lancelot?"  
  
There was no mistaking the stranger's reaction to her words; it was pure   
stupefaction. "Sir Lancelot?"  
  
"Yes. The mysterious knight who-"  
  
"*That's* him? *He's* the man you're in love with?"  
  
"Yes. I-I-" Lois stopped as the stranger threw back his head and   
laughed, the sound of pure joy. "What's so funny about that??" she   
asked angrily. "Is it so strange that-"  
  
"No," said the stranger, adjusting his glasses again. "Sorry. It's   
not . . . I'm just surprised, that's all."  
  
"Are you going to answer my question?" Lois asked impatiently.   
  
"What question?"  
  
"About Sir Lancelot."  
  
"What about him?"  
  
"What do you know about him?"  
  
"What do you want to know?" asked the stranger with a teasing smile.  
  
"Is he married?" said Lois through her teeth, annoyed that this   
exasperating man was making things so hard for her.  
  
"No," said the stranger, his eyes dancing. "Not yet."  
  
"Not yet-? Is he going to be married, then?"  
  
"He hopes so," said the stranger fervently.  
  
"He's in love?"  
  
"Very much so," said the stranger, regarding her with such tenderness that   
Lois felt herself blushing again. Why was he doing this to her? *How*   
was he doing this to her?  
  
"I might have known," said Lois, shaking off the feeling the stranger   
had elicited in her. He looked as if he were about to say something   
else, but he changed his mind when several voices hailed them. Several   
riders were galloping their way, gesturing to Lois's companion.  
  
"Lois," said the stranger, hurrying to speak while the other riders were   
still out of earshot, "take my advice: marry the King. I think you'll   
find that it's not so terrible."  
  
He turned as the first of the riders reached them. "My Lord," the rider   
sprang from his horse and knelt beside the stranger's stallion. "Your   
Royal Highness. Lord Lex has arrived in Metropolishire and wants to talk   
to you."  
  
"Lex?" he frowned. "I'd better go, then." He turned to Lois, who was   
sitting very still on her horse, gazing at him with horror. "I   
hope to see you later, Lady Lois," he said, his eyes brimming with   
amusement. "In fact, I'm counting on it." He turned back to his men,   
the rest of whom had reached them by this time. "Rudolf and Cecil, see   
that the Lady Lois returns safely to Lane Castle. Stay at her side at   
all times . . . if you can." Glancing at Lois one last time, his eyes   
warm and friendly, he wheeled his stallion and took off at a gallop for   
the castle.  
  
********************************************  
  
"Is he gone yet?" Lois asked, approaching the guard for the tenth time.  
  
The guard sighed. "Yes, milady," he said, "Lord Lex is gone. But the   
King has gone to his chambers and . . . wait-! You can't go-"  
  
Lois swept past him and strode rapidly down the hall towards the chamber   
that had been allotted to the King during his stay at Lane Castle.   
"Milady, you can't go in there!" cried the guard standing outside the   
King's door. He tried to block her, but she ducked and danced around   
him, flinging the door open and stalking into the room.   
  
"You!" she spat out furiously. "You tricked me-" She halted abruptly,   
her face flushing when she took in the scene before her. An attendant   
was standing between her and the King, who was, as far as Lois could see,   
without a stitch of clothing and about to step into a hot, steaming bath.   
Quickly the King snatched up a cloth and fastened it around his waist.  
  
"What are you doing, Rolfe?" he asked the guard, who was trying to hustle   
Lois out of the room.  
  
"My Lord," said Rolfe, snapping to attention, "The Lady Lois is desirous   
of seeking an audience with Your Royal Highness . . . perhaps at a later   
time?"  
  
"I'll see her now," said the King calmly, picking up his glasses and   
putting them on. He motioned to Rolfe and the attendant to leave, which   
they did, closing the door behind them. "Hi, Lois," he said, his face   
breaking into a grin as soon as they were alone. "I was expecting   
you . . . but not . . . quite like this-"  
  
"You-you-!" Lois sputtered. "You are without a doubt the lowest, most   
miserable, despicable . . . *creature* I have ever met! I can't   
be*lieve* you did this to me!" She began pacing back and forth, keeping   
her eyes averted from the King's bare chest. "Your Highness-"  
  
"Clark," said the King.  
  
"What?"  
  
"Call me Clark. Please; it's my name. Arthur Clark of Kent."  
  
"Clark," said Lois. "You didn't tell me who you were . . . you let me   
talk . . . let me say things . . . *things*! That you had no business   
hearing! How *could* you?? I would never have talked to you like that   
if I had known who you were!"   
  
"And that would have been a shame; I found our conversation to be very   
informative," drawled Clark, folding his arms across his chest.   
"Especially the part about Sir Lancelot."   
  
Lois blushed more deeply than ever. "That's what I mean! That you of   
all people should hear that - what I said!" Unable to face him, she   
wheeled and stared into the fire.  
  
"Have you thought about what I said?" asked Clark finally, breaking the   
silence.   
  
"What?" said Lois.  
  
"About . . . marrying the King," Clark said, attempting to speak   
offhandedly, but the tension in his voice betraying that he had more   
than a casual interest in her answer.  
  
"Oh. That."  
  
"I can tell you that Sir Lancelot is not available. That he will never   
be available. And you say that you could never love anyone else,   
so . . . ." Clark took a deep breath. "I'm sorry that I didn't ask you   
first, Lois, that I didn't find out your feelings before I asked your   
father if you'd marry me. But since I *did* . . . what do you say?"   
He added in a voice which shook slightly, "Will you marry me?"   
  
"But . . . you know . . . everything . . ." gasped Lois, the intensity   
of his gaze making her feel unaccountably breathless. ". . . how I   
feel . . . and about Sir Lancelot . . . and *everything* . . . ."  
  
"That doesn't matter," Clark assured her.  
  
"But . . . how can you . . . when you know that I love another   
man . . . ?" Lois stopped, confused.  
  
"It doesn't matter," Clark repeated. "Will you marry me, Lois? I   
won't hold it against you if you refuse, but if you accept . . . I will   
do everything in my power to make you happy, I promise." His voice was   
low, earnest.   
  
"But . . . are you sure . . . about Sir Lancelot? That he's in love   
with . . . someone?" Lois was blushing again. She knew how shocked   
her parents would be if they found out she was talking to the King like   
this, and yet she somehow knew that this man would not hold her frankness   
against her. And, indeed, her question seemed to amuse him somehow.   
  
"I'm sure," he said, his eyes dancing.  
  
Lois felt her irritation rising. Was he laughing at her? "Then I might   
as well marry you as anyone," she said. Realizing that she had been rude,   
she opened her mouth to apologize, but she closed it again quickly,   
thinking better of it. There was no point in pretense; Clark knew how   
she felt: about Lancelot, and about *him*, and he didn't mind. This was   
a marriage of convenience contracted between two adults and it was best   
if they both understood that.   
  
Clark didn't appear to be offended by her rudeness. "You won't regret it,"   
he assured her.  
  
Lois's temper flared. "So you understand how I feel?" she said in an   
attempt to puncture his smugness. "You understand that I love   
Sir Lancelot; that I will *always* love Sir Lancelot?"  
  
"Yes," said Clark, smiling broadly.  
  
"And you don't care??"  
  
"Uh . . . let's just say that I don't *mind*," said Clark.  
  
"And you know that it's no use your falling for me; that I will never   
love *you*?" continued Lois, still nettled.  
  
"Never is a long time, Lois," said Clark. "You might change your   
mind . . . ." That odd smile still hovered about his lips.  
  
"Never!" repeated Lois. "Don't hold your breath!" She spun on her heel   
and swept out of the room, oblivious to Clark's gaze on her retreating   
back.  
  
As Lois stormed down the hall, Clark's guards drew back against the wall,   
as if fearing they'd be scorched in her passing. The King's attendant,   
Ban, stuck his head cautiously into Clark's room, his gaze alighting on   
Clark's face to see how he had weathered the termagant's storm. To his   
surprise, instead of looking displeased, His Royal Highness was smiling   
and seemed to be in quite good spirits. Ban mopped his brow   
surreptitiously. Well, if the King could pull together all the warring   
kingdoms of Britain into one united country, he guessed that His Majesty   
could handle one slender young woman. And he was welcome to her.  
  
****************************************************  
  
Back in her room, Lois sank down on her bed, putting a trembling hand to   
her mouth. As anger fled, her audacity in saying what she had began to   
sink in. How could she have told him, the King of all England and the   
man to whom she had just been promised in marriage, that she was in love   
with another man? And that she would never love *him*?  
  
But . . . she jumped to her feet, striding vigorously back and forth in   
her bedchamber . . . how could *he* have let her say anything in the first   
place? How could he have let her speak so frankly of her upcoming marriage   
to him without revealing his identity? Eavesdroppers hear no good of   
themselves, and apparently the King was no exception.  
  
Still . . . for her to have burst into his bedchamber like that . . . !  
  
And to find him preparing for the bath!  
  
She blushed hotly as the image of his nearly nude form rose before her.   
A fine figure of a man! Cat - and her sister - had both told her that.   
But they had no idea! No idea.  
  
She sat down again, putting her face in her hands.  
  
Her whole body burned.  
  
****************************************************  
  
She married him, of course; to have refused the King would have been   
unthinkable.   
  
Strangely, although the news of her intrusion into the King's bedchamber   
had rocked the castle and scandalized her parents, on the whole it had   
not hurt Lois's reputation with the King's subjects. If she had behaved   
in such a manner with a lesser man, she would have been ruined, but the   
King's people had taken it as evidence of her eagerness to be with him,   
and since he was such a popular and well-beloved figure, it had the   
effect of increasing her own popularity. It was obvious to everyone   
that the King adored his new bride, and "proof" that his regard was   
returned made Lois a beloved figure also.  
  
And to her surprise, Clark's prediction turned out to be true: marriage   
*wasn't* so terrible. She was allowed more freedom in the well-guarded   
Camelot than she had ever had at Lane Castle, and Clark was a kind and   
considerate husband. At first, Lois had eyed him rather warily,   
half-afraid that he would taunt her about her feelings for Sir Lancelot,   
or otherwise make her uncomfortable in some way. But he didn't. In fact,   
he treated her with such easy friendliness that she soon found herself   
opening up to him more than to anyone else in her whole life, even her   
sister, Lucy.  
  
In return, he shared with her the details of his dreams for England's   
future. He envisioned a prosperous and peaceful country, governed by   
rules of justice and equal opportunity for all.   
  
Amazingly, he treated her as an equal in these conversations. He didn't   
make the assumption that, as a woman she would be incapable of   
understanding matters not directly pertaining to home and family. Instead,   
he sought out and appeared to value her insights into his proposed methods   
for governing the his kingdom.  
  
And so, as the beloved wife and confidante of a venerated King, and   
with a certain popularity in her own right, Lois found that life was   
pleasant.  
  
And yet . . . she yearned for something more. She listened eagerly for   
tales of Sir Lancelot, the mysterious knight who had sworn to protect the   
weak and to uphold truth and justice. The elusive figure who had captured   
her imagination was so noble, so thoroughly heroic in every way!   
  
True, many of his ideas were echoes of the vision propounded by her   
husband, but the dashing knight's methods of enforcing them stirred her   
blood and thrilled her soul so that she longed for just one more glimpse   
of the great man.   
  
She knew that nothing could ever happen between them now that she was   
married to the King, but still she wanted to see him, to speak to him   
just one more time.  
  
Since she didn't dare to show any public interest in Sir Lancelot because   
of the gossip that would arise, it was Clark to whom she applied for   
news of the great man. After every Lancelot sighting, she would contrive   
to get her husband alone and then would ply him with questions. Sometimes   
she would see a fleeting expression cross Clark's face, almost as if he   
were hurt or jealous by her interest in the hero, but the expression would   
always vanish so quickly that Lois believed she had been mistaken. No,   
she *knew* that she *must* be mistaken. Clark had been aware of her   
feelings for Sir Lancelot from the beginning and he had assured her that   
he was okay with them. He had not been jealous of Sir Lancelot then, and   
so he *could* not be jealous now.  
  
She found it frustrating that Clark would tell her nothing of   
Sir Lancelot's deeds that were not public knowledge. In spite of his   
reticence, she believed that he knew more of the great knight's secrets   
than he was willing to share with her. She could not forget the evening   
several days after their wedding when he had appeared to be about to   
impart some information about Lancelot. During their subsequent   
conversation, he had wandered off course and had never completed the   
thought that had led him to broach the subject, and in fact had denied   
that he had any more information about Sir Lancelot to give. And yet,   
looking back, Lois was convinced that he had been about to tell her   
something of great import, but had changed his mind. She went over the   
conversation again and again, sifting every word . . . .   
  
They were dining alone when Clark turned to her, a smile hovering over   
his lips. "Lois . . . there's something I have to tell you about . . .   
Sir Lancelot." At the mention of her hero's name, Lois's gaze rested on   
Clark's face with singular focus. Seeing that he had her attention,   
Clark cleared his throat and took a deep breath. The smile faded as he   
continued seriously, "It has something to do with *me*, too. As you   
know, two years ago, the Council took a vote and decided that I shouldn't   
be going around the countryside doing, uh, knight-errantry anymore-"  
  
"Yes, I know," Lois interrupted, "So it was a good thing that   
Sir Lancelot arrived from France, or wherever he came from, to take your   
place."  
  
"Yes, well," Clark cleared his throat again. "That wasn't a   
coincidence . . . exactly."  
  
"No, of course not," Lois said calmly. "Everyone knows that you must   
have sent for him, and a good thing, too; the Council was right about   
you being too valuable to risk."  
  
"I didn't actually *send* for him," said Clark cautiously, "I decided   
to . . . uh- wait. You think the Council was 'right?'"  
  
"I *know* they were right," said Lois emphatically.   
  
"But, Lois, I could do so much good by riding around and enforcing-"  
  
"Are you crazy?? Clark, we can't risk losing the King over an attempt   
to recover some farmer's stolen pig!"  
  
"You might not 'lose' me-" Clark began.  
  
"And if you went riding out alone and unprotected like you used to, then   
you would certainly be ambushed sooner or later by Lot or one of your   
other enemies, and with you gone, Cole and Rheged would be at war with   
each other immediately, as would Lot and Vornwall, who would of course   
be trying to conquer each other and everyone else, too-"  
  
"But if it were unlikely that I would be killed-"  
  
"Clark!! Just the *idea* that you could be killed at any moment would   
create unrest and instability throughout the whole country!"  
  
"But if thieves and robbers have to deal with the possibility that I   
could surprise them *at any time* by catching them in the act and   
apprehending them-"  
  
"It's not worth it, Clark-"  
  
"Yes, it is Lois," Clark insisted. He jumped to his feet and ran a hand   
through his hair. "The good I could do-"  
  
"-the risk involved . . . and for what? To catch a few petty criminals-"  
  
"What if there isn't any risk? What if it's perfectly safe for me to-"  
  
"It's *not* perfectly safe, and even if it were, no one would ever believe   
it. The kingdom would be thrown into a state of uncertainty, with   
Lord Lex and some others I could name counting the days until they would   
be able to take your place!"  
  
"So you think that I shouldn't ride around the kingdom enforcing justice?"   
he asked, looking at her with a strange, almost-pleading expression.  
  
"Of course not! Not in combat, anyway! Division of labor . . . that's   
what you're always preaching, isn't it? 'Let a farmer be a farmer' and   
'let a craftsman ply his craft?' You're the King; do what kings do and   
leave the knight-errantry to Sir Lancelot!"  
  
Clark was staring at some point on the opposite wall. "What if no one   
knew it was me?" he asked finally. "If I wore my helmet and no one saw   
my face-?"  
  
"No!" Lois jumped to her feet and running around to face him, grasped   
his arms. "You can't do it! If you were ever unmasked-!" She shook him.   
"Promise me you won't try it! Clark!"  
  
Clark fixed his gaze on her face, sudden hope in his eyes. "Would it   
matter so much to you if something happened to me?"  
  
"Of course!" said Lois impatiently. "I just told you-"  
  
"-that you don't want any risk to the King, yes. . . . Is there any other   
reason?" His voice was elaborately casual.  
  
Lois stared. "No," she said in surprise. "Should there be?"  
  
Clark lowered his eyes. "I guess not," he said. Disengaging himself   
from her, he sat down again and picked up a loaf of bread, breaking   
off a piece and extending it towards her.  
  
Lois dropped into her chair and took the bread he offered. Instead of   
eating it, though, she turned it over in her hand, looking at it rather   
wistfully. "I wish I could see him again," she sighed. "He has such   
grace and strength . . . it's the most wonderful thing in the world to   
see him in action. He's so strong, so adept at handling his weapon and   
his horse, so-"  
  
"I used to be considered a pretty fair fighter myself," Clark growled,   
interrupting her eulogy. "And a good rider, too!"  
  
"Ummm," said Lois vaguely.  
  
"I *was*!" Clark insisted.  
  
"Oh, Clark, I'm sure you were a nice little fighter," laughed Lois,   
amused by the fragility of the tender male ego. "But believe me, you   
make a much better king. You're just and compassionate, and . . . well,   
yes . . . sweet and kind, too." Her eyes softened momentarily, then   
her gaze sharpened as she continued briskly. "Have you ever seen   
Sir Lancelot in action?"  
  
"Seen him? Well, no . . . not exactly . . . ."  
  
"He is so powerful, acts so swiftly and decisively-"  
  
"Because he's in battle, yes. *I* would act differently in battle, too-"  
  
"And besides, Sir Lancelot is so much more effective at knight-errantry   
than you could ever be!"  
  
"Don't be so sure about that, Lois," said Clark, nettled.  
  
"Oh, Clark, I'm sure you were a wonderful knight, too. I believe you,   
okay? But I think you make a *better* king and it's ridiculous for you   
to consider risking the peace of your domain by running around playing   
knight in shining armor. So let's just leave it at that."  
  
Scowling, Clark returned to his meal. They ate in silence for awhile.   
"What was it you were going to tell me?" asked Lois when she remembered   
how the subject had first come up. "You said you had something to tell   
me about Sir Lancelot?"  
  
"Not really," said Clark heavily. Seeing that more was expected of him,   
he added, "I just . . . uh . . . I wanted to tell you that he had been   
seen in Cornwall."  
  
"Really?? When?" Her eyes shining, the star-struck Lois plied him with   
questions about the reported sighting of her hero, and was somewhat   
disconcerted when Clark began to exhibit signs of jealousy. But that   
was ridiculous; after all, Clark hadn't married her for love. Lois knew   
this to be true in spite of her sister's belief to the contrary. Clark   
had always known about her feelings for Sir Lancelot, and he hadn't   
minded . . . or at least he had *said* that he didn't mind, and Lois   
had taken him at his word. So if he was hurt now by her regard for the   
great knight - Lois lifted her chin - he had no one but himself to blame.   
*She* had been honest with him from the start; *she* had made no secret   
of her feelings then, and she wasn't going to start now.  
  
It wasn't until much later, after she had reviewed the conversation in   
her mind, that Lois came to the conclusion that Lancelot's appearance   
in Cornwall hadn't been what her husband had planned to discuss with   
her at all.  
  
She was filled with an intense curiosity, and attempted to broach the   
subject several times over the ensuing months, but inexplicably, each   
time, their conversation would somehow end with Clark insisting that he   
could disguise himself and fulfill the same role as Lancelot, and with   
Lois insisting with increasing emphasis as the months passed, that he   
could not, should not, *must* not!   
  
Clark appeared surprised at her vehemence, as was Lois herself. She was   
unable to account for the fear that gripped her at the thought of Clark   
exposing himself to danger in such a manner, but after careful   
consideration, she arrived at the conclusion that she simply did not   
want England to risk losing the best king it had ever had. It certainly  
was not lost on Lois that Clark's subjects almost idolized him.   
  
His prowess in battle was celebrated, his exploits having been told and   
retold until they had assumed legendary status. But it was as a fair   
and beneficent king that he was most renowned, and it was as such that   
Lois had come to know him. She had never seen him in battle, since he   
had retired from active service when he had aged into his late twenties.   
She respected him for his ability to resolve sticky issues and craft   
win-win solutions to the problems presented to him, but it was in cases   
like the one with the poacher that he won her whole-hearted admiration.   
  
A youth had been caught poaching in the royal forest, but after   
determining that Jack had been driven by hunger and was trying to get   
food for the other members of his family, the King had instituted a new   
policy regarding the royal lands. Clark had declared that game could   
be hunted during certain seasons and had designated certain men who were  
knowledgeable about the forests as wardens. Rather than ordering that   
the lad who had been caught poaching be hanged, which was the usual   
penalty, Clark had pardoned him and assigned him to be the first   
apprentice to the game wardens.  
  
But if Lois admired his ability to render just decisions in difficult   
cases, he still was no Lancelot, and it was for the powerful knight that   
her heart longed.   
  
****************************************************  
  
Although he remained much in her thoughts, Lois mentioned Lancelot to   
her husband less frequently as time passed. She had gradually come to   
the realization that in spite of his reassurances to the contrary, it   
*did* matter to Clark that she was in love with the great knight. A   
strange, hurt light would appear in his eyes when she rhapsodized over   
her hero, and he was often uncustomarily distant with her afterwards.   
  
So when the castle buzzed with news of Sir Lancelot's latest confrontation   
with several of Lord Lex's men, instead of rushing to ask Clark for   
details, Lois gleaned what scraps of information from court gossip that   
she could without showing undue interest in the knight's exploits. She   
was frantic to know what had happened, but she had no one to ask.  
  
I can't ask Clark about it . . . he'd sulk for days, she thought   
acerbically.  
  
It was unfortunate that she never learned the details of the   
contretemps, for if she had, maybe she would have been more careful.   
Or then again, maybe she wouldn't. In any case, she was to get her   
wish to see the great Sir Lancelot again, but not in such a way as   
she would have chosen.  
  
*****************************************  
  
Lois reined in the stallion and looked uneasily at the horse and rider   
that barred her path. "Good day, sir," she said, nodding politely to   
the man who sat so silently on his own steed.  
  
"Your Highness," said the stranger, bowing low over his horse's crest.  
  
Lois was relieved that he had recognized her, for it was unlikely that   
the man would dare to pursue an indignity against the wife of the   
powerful King of England. Nodding again, she urged her mount forward,   
expecting the man to give way before her. He stood his ground, however,   
and she was forced to rein in again. "Sir . . . if you would be so kind   
as to yield the trail . . . ." she said haughtily. Still he made no move   
to turn aside. "Are you going to let me have the trail, or am I going to   
have to ride over you??" cried Lois, losing her temper.  
  
"If it please your Highness, you're coming with us," said the stranger.   
There was no discourtesy in his voice, but no room for argument, either.   
But . . . what had he said about . . . *us*?? She glanced apprehensively   
at the apparently impenetrable undergrowth lining the trail. As if on   
cue, there was a rustling in the brush and suddenly she found herself   
surrounded by four riders on well-built horses. "Be assured, your   
Highness, we're not going to hurt you," said the first man. "If you'll   
just relax and come with us-"  
  
"In a pig's eye!" retorted Lois. She wheeled Grey Bullock and drove   
him straight for a slight gap between two of the riders. Before the   
men could stop him, Grey Bullock had plunged through the opening and   
charged directly into the undergrowth. Lois urged him forward, forcing   
a way through the tangled brush. Branches whipped her face and jagged   
brambles tore at her clothes, but she pushed on unheedingly.  
  
Her mind raced as she rapidly plotted how best to elude the riders   
thundering after her. She was heading east. If she could manage to   
out-distance her pursuers, she could turn north and ride parallel to the   
highway until she reached Mithras Inn. She would find King's men   
quartered there, and they would see her safely back to Camelot.   
  
Pleased with her plan, she poured all her concentration into navigating   
Grey Bullock through the forest. She was glad that she had taken one of   
Clark's own stallions to ride today. In an open field, no horse could   
beat her Silken Thread for speed or stamina, but in the close quarters   
of the rock-and-sapling-strewn undergrowth, it was best to have the   
sure-footed and sturdy mount she now rode.  
  
"Your Ladyship!" called a voice from behind her. "Your Highness! Wait!   
We mean you no harm! Please wait for us!"  
  
But she only drove Grey Bullock harder, and the big horse reached into   
his great heart, pouring his soul into leaving the others behind.  
  
This part of the forest was strange to Lois and she was therefore taken   
completely by surprise when Grey Bullock burst out of the woods into a   
long and narrow clearing. Rather than running the length of the   
clearing and giving her pursuers a chance to catch up to her, she turned   
Grey Bullock and ran him at a diagonal through the open space, hoping   
to lose the other riders once she got into the forest on the other side   
again.  
  
But it was not to be. Her pursuers, apparently more familiar with this   
part of the great forest than she, had fanned out behind her, and one   
of them, the man bestriding a powerful bay, was threatening to overtake   
her. She turned Grey Bullock slightly and headed in a different   
direction, the thunder of hooves behind her warning that her pursuer was   
drawing nearer. She drove her heel into her horse's side, causing him   
to spring forward.   
  
She had almost reached the protection of the forest when she heard a   
whistling sound from behind her. Grey Bullock gave a surprised grunt,   
and his stride faltered. Lois urged him forward, but it was too late.   
There was another whistling sound and Grey Bullock screamed with pain as   
he went down on his haunches. Lois clung to his neck, but the riders who   
had overtaken her at last wrested her from the saddle. As she struggled,   
she saw Grey Bullock lurch to his feet and stumble forward. An axe was   
solidly embedded in his left haunch. She didn't see what instrument had   
severed his tendon, but his useless leg trailed behind him as he hobbled   
towards the edge of the clearing. He was snorting in pain.  
  
The stranger who had first accosted Lois galloped across the clearing and   
jerked his horse to a sliding stop. "You fools!" he roared. "Who threw   
that axe? You might have killed the Queen!"  
  
"*Didn't* kill her!" panted one of the men fighting to control Lois's   
flailing arms. "Got the horse!"  
  
"My horse!" screamed Lois, struggling fiercely against the arms that   
sought to contain her. "Grey Bullock!" The horse was one of Clark's   
favourites. She screamed again.  
  
"Take . . . it . . . easy, Your . . . Highness," grunted one of the men   
trying to subdue her.  
  
"Put him down!" screamed Lois. "Don't let him suffer! Don't leave him   
here for the wolves! Put him down!" Tears were running down her cheeks   
and she sobbed openly. The men had her arms pinned to her sides now, but   
she continued to writhe and undulate against their hands, kicking at   
whatever parts of their bodies she could reach.  
  
"Don't hurt her," instructed the first man. "Tie her hands . . . yes,   
like that . . . careful . . . ."  
  
"She . . . fights . . . like all the demons of Hell," gasped one of her   
captors.  
  
"Grey Bullock, Grey Bullock!" sobbed Lois. "My horse . . . ." With   
her arms tightly bound, she ceased struggling and bowed her head, hot   
tears cascading down her face. "He'll suffer . . . ." she moaned.   
"Don't let him . . . ."  
  
"Don't worry, Your Highness," said one of the men. "We'll take care of   
him." He moved behind Lois and towards Grey Bullock, who was now out   
of her sight. She heard a sound, and then another, and then the horse's   
death scream tore the air, tearing at Lois's heart as well. She heard   
a thud, and then silence. Strong arms were lifting her onto a   
horse . . . one of the men snatched the reins and began leading her   
mount back the way they had come.  
  
Lois was still sobbing.   
  
The horse . . . dead . . . Grey Bullock . . . a favourite . . . horse . . .   
his . . . Clark's . . . Clark . . . .  
  
She swayed in the saddle.  
  
  
*********************************************  
  
Clark.  
  
Something happened, something . . . terrible . . . .  
  
What . . . ?  
  
Something . . . .  
  
. . . darkness . . .   
  
Dead.  
  
No, no, not Clark, please, not Clark.  
  
Clark . . . love . . .  
  
Dead. I never got to tell him.  
  
Crying.  
  
Night . . . no, my eyes . . . closed . . . must be . . . sleeping.  
  
She heard a footfall and felt a surge of hope. He wasn't dead; he was   
here, he had come to her bedchamber, as usual. He was just late, as he   
sometimes was. "Clark," she whispered.  
  
"So you're awake, Your Highness." The voice was not known to her, and   
she stiffened as she became fully awake and memory flooded back.   
  
It's Clark's horse that's dead. Not Clark.  
  
She was conscious of overwhelming relief.   
  
"Perhaps you would like to change your attire and prepare for dinner,   
if you are feeling well enough," the voice continued.  
  
Lois reluctantly opened her tear-filled eyes and blinked at the man   
standing beside the couch on which someone had placed her. "Sir Melwas,"   
she croaked.  
  
He bowed. "There is bath water in the other chamber, Your Highness,"   
he informed her. "You'll find clean clothing, also. I regret that we   
have no lady to attend you, however."  
  
Lois didn't reply. She was completely devoid of strength, too exhausted   
even to formulate questions to ask of her host. She rolled to the side   
of the couch and sat up gingerly, dashing the dampness from her cheeks   
with the back of her hand. The lacerations on her face and on her body   
where the brambles had pierced her clothing were stinging and she ached   
all over, but most alarming was the languor that seemed to have   
overtaken her limbs. She felt drained of everything, even emotion, and   
when Sir Melwas gestured towards the open door on the other side of the   
room, she merely nodded her head and made her way weakly to it without   
pausing even to reconnoiter the layout of the chamber.  
  
Once in the privacy of the other room, however, she did force herself to   
conduct a thorough exploration, a task which proved to be of dismally   
short duration, as the small room was without windows and its only door   
led to the chamber where Sir Melwas had greeted her.   
  
Discouraged, she wearily stripped off her clothing and lowered herself   
into the tub of hot water that awaited her, soaking in its welcoming   
warmth until the water began to grow tepid. She climbed out of the tub   
again and toweled herself off slowly, putting on the gown and other   
accouterments she found laid out on the chair.  
  
After brushing out her hair and binding it up again into a loose knot,   
she reluctantly returned to the outer chamber where Sir Melwas awaited   
her, tossing a light shawl over her shoulders. "If Your Highness will   
be seated, I'll serve dinner," said the knight when she appeared.  
  
Lois dropped wordlessly into the chair he indicated and allowed him to   
give her a bowl of rich venison stew flavored with burgundy. She broke   
off a piece of the good bread he handed her and proceeded to eat in   
silence.   
  
As she ate, strength began flowing back into her limbs, and with   
returning strength came curiosity. When she had finished her meal, she   
set the bowl aside and tapped her spoon against the table top. "Where   
am I?" she asked, looking up into Sir Melwas's face with glittering   
eyes, "And what are your intentions towards me?"  
  
"You're in a lodge on an island in the middle of Guinevere Lake," replied   
Sir Melwas. "And I have no intentions towards your Highness at all.   
I'm here to watch over you while we await the arrival of your lord."  
  
Lois dropped her spoon. "Clark??" she said tremulously.  
  
"I should say, 'your *new* lord,'" Sir Melwas smirked. "The King will   
not be coming here, I think."   
  
The hope that had briefly flared died, and Lois gazed at Melwas through   
narrowed eyes. "Who, then?" she asked.  
  
"I'll let him tell you himself," said Melwas, his voice non-committal.  
  
"Lex Luthor," Lois guessed. Melwas didn't answer, but his confirmation   
wasn't necessary, Lois already knew. "It's been rumored that you had   
become one of Luthor's men," she said. She cleared her throat. "What   
does he hope to gain by kidnaping me?" she asked, forcing herself to   
stay calm.  
  
"What does he hope to gain by kidnaping you?" repeated Sir Melwas,   
raising his eyebrows. "*You*."  
  
"Me??!" Bile rose in Lois's throat, and she pushed her chair back from   
the table. "I don't *think* so!" she spat. "Luthor will *never* 'have'   
me! And you'd better take me back to Camelot before my husband starts   
on your trail," she added. "I hate to think of what he'll do to you   
when he catches you. But if you see me safely to the castle, I'll put   
in a good word for you with him."  
  
"The King will never find us here," replied Sir Melwas. "At least,   
you'd better hope he doesn't, Milady."  
  
"You *dare* to threaten the King?" said Lois furiously.  
  
"I'm not threatening the King," replied Melwas calmly, "I'm just pointing   
out how short your life will be once the King finds out that you've run   
away to be with Lord Luthor."  
  
Lois gaped at him . . . the man was crazy! "What makes you think," she   
said, choosing her words carefully, "that the King will believe that   
I've *chosen* to be with Lord Luthor?"  
  
"Lord Lex has already started rumors that you're in love with him,"   
said Melwas, "helped, I'm sure, by the fact that it's well known that   
you *were* in love with him once-"  
  
"I once *believed* that I was in love with him," Lois corrected.   
"That was years ago - and I was . . . mistaken."  
  
"And that knowledge, coupled with your quarrel with the King this   
morning - yes, the whole castle knows about that by now - will make it   
obvious that you ran away to Lex."  
  
Lois dropped her eyes again, hoping that her incredulity didn't show in   
her face. The man really *was* crazy if he believed that Clark would   
think for one minute that she had run away from him on account of their   
argument this morning!   
  
Lois had been furious with Clark because he had (uncharacteristically)   
*ordered* her to stay within the palace. How *dared* he tell her what   
to do?? she had raved, not seeing the irony. But, really, in spite of   
his position as King of all England, he had never ordered *her* to do   
or not do anything, and in fact had bent over backwards to indulge her   
in every way possible. Tears rose to her eyes when she remembered the   
many other ways in which he had shown his great love for her.   
  
And the order he had issued this morning was another such indication of   
his love for her, although she hadn't known it at the time.  
  
But he hadn't made his reason for issuing the order known to her, which   
had angered Lois more than the initial command. Since she hadn't seen   
any reason to obey him, she had promptly decided to do what she had been   
planning for weeks. She had stolen away on one of Clark's stallions and   
started on a ride for the Cleddagh Place, the village where Sir Lancelot   
had been sighted two nights ago. She had dressed in a plain gown, hoping   
that in her quiet inquiries about Sir Lancelot she wouldn't be recognized   
as the Queen.  
  
But she had subsequently been kidnaped into this mess, and incidentally,   
had cost Clark one of his favourite horses.  
  
She bit her lip.  
  
But . . . wait . . . what does this mean in terms of Luthor's plot? If   
Clark had warned her not to ride outside the confines of the palace, it   
meant that he must have known that some kind of aggression was being   
planned against him or a member of his household.   
  
It was clear, though, that Melwas had no idea that Clark had somehow   
been warned that something of this nature was going forward.   
  
Equally clear that although Melwas knew that she and Clark had had a   
fight, he had no idea what it was about, since if he had, he would   
have known that Clark would never believe the tale the knight had just   
suggested.  
  
She would not tell Melwas of his error in believing Clark ignorant of a   
plot against him, though. No, she would give Clark the element of   
surprise.  
  
What she *would* do, however, was apprize this misguided knight of the   
futility of trying to create an estrangement between Clark and herself.  
  
"My husband will never believe anything of the kind," said Lois,   
responding to Melwas's last statement. "So if I were you, I'd-"  
  
"So? It doesn't really matter whether *he* believes it," interrupted   
Melwas. "Once it becomes widely known that you've spent the night   
without chaperone in the company of another man, he'll have to execute   
you for treason."  
  
"That's ridiculous!" exclaimed Lois. But her heart sank.  
  
"It's the law, Your Highness, as I'm sure you know. Of course, if the   
King is feeling merciful, he may just exile you to a convent instead   
of burning you at the stake."   
  
Burned at the stake. Lois shuddered.   
  
"However, I rather think that the King will burn you. It's well known   
that he is mad for you. He goes to your bed every night-" He put up   
a quelling hand as Lois made a movement in outrage at the man's   
insolence, "-and a man who loves passionately can hate in the same way.   
Which would you prefer, your Highness: exile or death? Or do you think   
that you might decide to go with Lex Luthor and become his lady, after   
all?" He smirked again. "Either way, the outcome of Luthor's plan   
will be assured. As Lois McMaster Bujold once said, or rather, will   
have said, 'The key of strategy . . . is not to choose *a* path to   
victory, but to choose so that *all* paths lead to a victory.'"  
  
"And where, exactly, is the victory in having me exiled or executed?"   
Lois asked, forcing herself to speak coolly and dispassionately.  
  
"Division of the kingdom, of course," said Melwas. Your father and his   
supporters will naturally object to the King's treatment of you and   
will be obliged to rebel against him in order to defend your honour -   
and theirs. Lot and Rheged will of course join your father against   
His Highness, while Cole and Vornwall will remain loyal to the King.   
Lord Lex will remain carefully neutral for the duration of the civil   
war so he can conserve his resources.'   
  
"When it's all over, and both sides are ravaged, Lord Lex will step in   
and easily overcome what is left of both armies. And *he* will be our   
next King."  
  
"Divide and conquer," snorted Lois in disgust. "And just what makes you   
think that my husband will follow either of the courses of action you've   
laid out for him? What if he decides to take me back? There will be no   
insult to me and my family, no feud in defense of my honour, no civil   
war, and . . . no . . . King Lex," she finished.  
  
"What you don't seem to understand," said Sir Melwas, "is that the King   
will have no choice. Your being with Lord Lex - no matter whether it is   
your will or not - is treason under the laws of England, and as the   
chief enforcer of justice, His Highness will be forced to order your   
execution or exile. To do otherwise would be to go back on his word that   
the Law is to be obeyed by everyone, high and low, no exceptions." He   
leaned back in his chair and looked triumphantly at Lois.  
  
And then Lois saw how diabolical was Luthor's plot. Melwas was right;   
Clark had been preaching equal rights and responsibilities under the law   
ever since he had ascended the throne. To let her "treason" go unpunished   
would be tantamount to admitting that rank had privileges not enjoyed by   
the lower classes. It would invalidate his whole system of justice.   
Clark would have to order her execution or exile in order to demonstrate   
that *no one* is above the law. And it would break his heart to do   
either.  
  
Lois's heart twisted as she realised the dilemma Luthor's fiendish plan   
would place her husband in, the man who had the weight of the whole   
kingdom on his shoulders, and she felt a fierce stab of anger towards   
the absent Lex. Clenching her jaw, she determined that she would find   
a way to foil the plot; if Clark were forced to send her to a nunnery   
(she *knew* he would never order her execution!), then she would prevail   
on her father not to make war in order to defend her honor. She would   
have to somehow make him see that he must not be the instrument that   
would bring about the Reign of Luthor.  
  
But first, she would do her utmost to see that Clark never had to take   
such a heart-breaking course of action. Only one man stood between her   
and the door to the outside world, and if that man had it in him to stop   
her, then she was not Lois Lane!   
  
She lowered her eyes, as if in defeat, and after a moment asked meekly   
if there was any more stew. Sir Melwas rose and took her bowl. Striding   
over to the fire, he began to fill the dish from the stewpot.   
As soon as his back was turned, Lois jumped to her feet and dashed to the   
door. Throwing aside the bolt that secured it, she thrust it open and   
stumbled over the threshold, halting in dismay when she saw that the lake   
was lapping at the doorstep. After less than a second's hesitation, she   
cast off her shawl and prepared to dive headfirst into the water.  
  
"I wouldn't," said Sir Melwas's voice behind her. "Sharp stakes have   
been driven into the lake bed all along the shore line of this small   
island. You will certainly be impaled if you go into the lake . . .   
which is quite shallow in this area, by the way. Much too shallow for   
diving. It was really very foolish of you to contemplate diving into   
unknown waters."  
  
Chagrined, Lois bit her lip. She regarded Melwas's stalwart form,   
wondering if he were bluffing and if she should call his bluff. But,   
no, it was a common enough trick, driving stakes into shallow water to   
defend the point of land beyond, and rather than risk killing or maiming   
herself by jumping into the water, she would do better to wait and try   
escape later.  
  
Without speaking to Melwas or even looking at him again, she swept past   
him into the private chamber. Melwas made no objection; in fact, he   
looked as if her agitation was precisely what he had expected.   
  
When she reached the relative security of the private room, she closed   
the door behind her and leaned against it, breathing hard while she   
considered the ironies of her fate.   
  
Once, she would have given almost anything to become Lex Luthor's lady.   
Now, she would give anything to avoid that destiny.  
  
She remembered what her sister had said about her being attracted to   
powerful and domineering men, an assessment of her character that had   
been confirmed by Dame Friskin. The good lady had told her much the   
same thing, predicting that Lois's preferences would change when she   
matured and learned what was really best for herself. Lois had   
realised tonight that the Dame's prediction had come true. Over the   
past few months Lois had gradually learned to respect and admire her   
kind and gentle husband, and those feelings had now turned into love.  
  
Her mind was filled, as it had been for the last several hours, with   
images of Clark: the easy grace of his walk, the quiet assurance in   
his manner. The compassion on his face when he made a ruling in a case   
brought before him, and the warmth in his eyes when his gaze fell upon   
her. She thought of how the firelight danced off his muscular chest   
and broad shoulders when he disrobed, and of the glow of eager   
anticipation on his face when he slid into bed beside her.  
  
She had been so wrapped up in her fantasies about the dashing   
Sir Lancelot that she had never taken the time to notice the quiet man   
beside her, until now. She grimaced when she thought of the supreme   
irony in the fact that she only realised how much she loved Clark when   
she was on the eve of losing him forever.  
  
She moved slowly to the bed and lay down, willing the tormenting thoughts   
away. She would find a way out of this for herself and Clark, but first,   
she needed to rest in order to gain strength to effect the escape she must   
engineer.   
  
She closed her eyes and, surprisingly, she slept.  
  
********************************************  
  
There was a loud crash, and Lois stirred in her sleep. A thunderstorm?   
She opened her eyes to almost total darkness, recognizing instantly that   
she was not in her own castle bedchamber. She moaned softly.  
  
The door to her room burst open and she was swept up into strong,   
comforting arms. "Are you all right?" asked her husband's voice. The   
big body holding her was trembling.   
  
"Yes . . . ." Lois whispered faintly.   
  
"Are you sure? I swear I will kill him if he's . . . hurt you." His   
voice shook with suppressed fury.  
  
"I'm all right," Lois gasped. She added the words that she had been   
longing to say for hours, the words that she had become increasingly   
afraid she would never be able to tell him: "I love you so much . . . ."  
  
He stiffened, and as Sir Melwas charged into the room, a blazing torch   
in one hand and a sword in the other, Lois saw with horror that her   
rescuer wasn't wearing the crest of Kent. The words of love she had   
just expressed had been said, not, as she had thought, to her husband,   
but to the great knight, Sir Lancelot.  
  
There was no opportunity for her to correct her error, for Melwas had   
launched himself towards them, sword extended. And then Sir Lancelot   
demonstrated one of those legendary abilities for which he was so famous;   
by the time Melwas and his deadly sword had reached them, Lancelot was   
simply . . . no longer there. How he did it, Lois couldn't tell; one   
minute Melwas was advancing on them from the open doorway, and the next,   
Lancelot had somehow danced around him and moved into the outer chamber.   
  
Still holding Lois, the great knight strode swiftly to the outside door.   
"Wait! There are sharpened stakes in the bed of the lake!" Lois warned   
her rescuer.  
  
"I know," said Lancelot. Without hesitation, he jumped over the   
threshold, twisting in mid-air so that his body was underneath Lois's   
when they plunged into the lake. Lois took a great gulp of air, then   
held her breath, expecting that they would be submerged. It was only   
Lancelot, however, lying flat on his back, who sank briefly beneath the   
water's surface. Lying on top of him, Lois was barely wet.  
  
Lancelot began kicking with his legs, propelling them across the lake.   
Lois marveled at their rapid progress, marveled still more at the knight's   
ability to keep them afloat. She would have thought that their combined   
weight would have submerged them, but somehow they were skimming atop   
the water, barely touching the lake's surface. How did he do it? And  
how had he managed to avoid the deadly stakes?  
  
They reached the opposite shore within a matter of minutes. Regaining   
his feet, Lancelot sloshed through the shallow water, still carrying   
Lois. He gave a low whistle and a dark horse trotted out of the shadows   
to halt before them. Lancelot hoisted Lois into the saddle and swung   
himself up behind her. They set off at a fast walk, following no trail   
that Lois could see.   
  
"Sir Melwas . . . ?" asked Lois.   
  
"I-the King will deal with him later," said Lancelot curtly. Lois   
shivered.   
  
They lapsed into silence as the big horse picked his way through the   
dark forest, the trail illuminated only by the full moon. Lois   
wanted to tell the knight of her mistake, to tell him that when she had   
uttered her declaration of love, she had thought that he was her husband,   
but with Lancelot's arrival, she had become possessed of a strange   
languor, borne partly of relief and partly of the sensations that coursed   
through her body at the feel of his strong arms around her.  
  
How can I feel this way? I love Clark . . . how can I still love   
Sir Lancelot . . . ?  
  
He loved her, too, she knew it. She could feel it in the protective way   
his arms cradled her body, in the tenderness of his hand holding her steady   
on the saddle in front of him.   
  
A wave of weakness rushed over her and she collapsed backward, leaning   
back into his chest. He didn't speak, but she could feel his heart   
beating thunderously through his doublet.  
  
By the time they had pulled up abruptly on the edge of a clearing, she   
still hadn't said anything about mistaking him for her husband, and now   
Lancelot was vaulting out of the saddle, lifting her, placing her on the   
ground beside him. Lois straightened and prepared to move away, but   
Lancelot retained his grip on her arms. "Just this once," he muttered so   
low that Lois was not sure she heard him correctly, "you'll kiss me like   
you mean it . . . ." He whipped off his helmet and bent his head.  
  
The kiss was over before Lois could protest, and the knight released her,   
leaping back into the saddle and melting into the shadows of the forest.   
There was a murmur of voices from where he had disappeared, followed by   
a rustling in the undergrowth. The bushes parted, and a horse plodded   
out, carrying-  
  
"Lucy!" gasped Lois.  
  
"Lois, are you all right?" Lucy scrambled down off the mare and dashed   
into her sister's arms.  
  
"Yes . . . no . . . I don't . . . I guess so," said Lois, her head in a   
whirl. "What brings you here? When did you come to Camelot?"  
  
"I got here this afternoon, but I haven't been seen in the palace yet.   
Somehow the King got wind of your kidnaping before I even arrived, and   
he hustled me out of sight immediately. Said he might need me for a   
cover story."  
  
"Wha-?"  
  
"Get on the horse. I'll explain while we ride. I don't want to hang   
around here for very long. We chased away the wolves, but-"  
  
"Wolves?"  
  
"They were after your dead horse." Lucy stood aside and for the first   
time Lois saw the body of Grey Bullock. Sir Lancelot had brought her   
back to the clearing where she had been kidnaped.  
  
Wasting no further time in conversation, Lois led the mare over to a   
stump that they could use as a mounting-block, then hustled Lucy into   
the saddle, climbing up behind her sister. Putting her arms around Lucy,   
she grabbed the reins from her and pulled the mare's head around,   
heading out of the clearing towards the trail she had ridden that   
morning.  
  
As they rode, Lois told her sister about the events that had occurred   
during that long day, and then Lucy filled her sister in on the cover   
story that the King had concocted. "I'm going to say that I arrived in   
Camelot this morning and we rode away together before anyone had seen me.   
We were accosted by those men who 'tried' to kidnap you, and your horse   
was killed. You climbed into the saddle with me and we somehow managed   
to escape from the ruffians, but we got lost ourselves in the process and   
we've been wandering around the forest all day. In a few minutes James   
Olson will find us and bring us back to the castle."  
  
"James Olson?"  
  
"He's one of the vassals."  
  
"Oh."  
  
"The King was wonderful. I don't know how he found out what was going   
on with you, but he did! And he was so kind . . . to me, even though I   
could see that he was half out of his mind with worry about you. He   
loves you so much, Lois . . . I think he'd give his life for you." Lois   
mumbled something that her sister didn't catch, and Lucy continued.   
"He told me that Sir Lancelot was going to find out where they had taken   
you and that he would bring you back to me. I am to tell everyone that   
we have not been out of each others' sight all day. The King will deal   
with your kidnapers later, in such a way that your name will never be   
mentioned in connection. This way we save your reputation."  
  
"I . . . see," said Lois. "Yes, it'll work. The men who kidnaped me   
won't contradict our story because they would incriminate themselves   
if they did. It's a good cover. Will Olson keep his mouth shut,   
though?"  
  
"I don't know how much he knows," said Lucy, "so it's best if we just   
stick to our story and not mention anything else. The King is so sweet,   
Lois; you're lucky to be loved by a man like him."  
  
"Yes," Lois affirmed. The sisters fell silent, Lois picturing her   
upcoming reunion with her husband. She would rush into his embrace,   
feeling the comforting strength of his arms as they wrapped around her,   
and then she would tell him how much she loved him. She would lament   
the death of Grey Bullock, and Clark would hug her tightly and tell her   
that it didn't matter, that the only thing that mattered was that she   
got back to him safely. And they would disappear into her bedchamber   
and make love with all their newly-discovered passion.   
  
Yes, she could picture the whole moving scene, contrition, forgiveness,   
and love.   
  
(Later, she would take issue with him for keeping her in the dark about   
the events that had been brewing. If he had told her what was going   
forward, she would never have stolen away like she had; she was going   
to have to make it clear to him that if they were to deal together he   
was going to have to be forthright with her. But that would come later;   
for now, she would be content with making up and making out.)  
  
And when she told him her story she was going to leave out that one   
eentsy detail of Lancelot's stolen kiss. Whatever feelings his caress   
had awakened in her - and she wasn't admitting to any of them - were   
strictly private, and as the kiss was *not* going to be repeated, it was   
completely irrelevant to her situation with Clark. What he didn't know   
wouldn't hurt him.  
  
Impatient to get back to him, she began fidgeting at the slow pace of   
her sister's mare.  
  
*********************************************  
  
Unfortunately, the affecting little reunion with Clark that she pictured   
on her ride back to Camelot never took place. The castle was in an   
uproar when they arrived, and she was forced to reunite with her husband   
in front of a score of members of the court. She thought that Clark gave   
her a strained look, but she attributed it to the peculiar details of   
their situation.   
  
After their public greeting, she didn't see him again that night. She   
retired to her bedchamber, where she fell immediately into an exhausted   
sleep. She awoke late, and he was not at her side. She didn't see him   
privately all that day, nor the next, and was never asked for the 'real'   
version of what took place when she was kidnaped, although Lucy told her   
that he had questioned *her* about it at length.  
  
When this pattern continued for several days, Lois was forced to conclude   
that Clark was upset with her and avoiding her.   
  
She had evidence, though, that he was continuing to come to her bed every   
night, although she was always asleep before he did so, and he was always   
gone when she woke up.   
  
Why, she wondered, did he continue to sleep in her bed if he was so angry   
with her that he wasn't interested in resuming intimacy? And then she   
knew the answer; if the King stopped visiting the Queen's bedchamber, the   
news would be all over the castle within a day, plunging them into the   
kind of gossip that would have prevailed if it were known that she had not,   
as was now commonly believed, spent that fateful day with her sister, but   
unchaperoned in the company of men. Clark was maintaining the appearance   
of normalcy for both their sakes.   
  
The question was: what was Clark so upset about? Or to put it another way:   
which event that *could* have upset him was the one triggering his avoidance   
behavior?  
  
Alone in her chamber one night, Lois determined to wait up for him and   
confront him. She paced back and forth, worriedly reviewing all the   
events that could have caused the estrangement between them.  
  
Lucy had told her that he hadn't seemed to be upset that she had ridden   
outside of Camelot in defiance of his orders; rather, he had appeared to   
be ruefully resigned.  
  
He wasn't angry about Grey Bullock's death; Lucy had reassured her about   
that, too.  
  
Clark *couldn't* believe that something had happened with the men who had   
kidnaped her. He couldn't think that she had been *assaulted*! But, no,   
he knew that nothing had happened to her; she had told Lucy everything, and   
Lucy said that she had relayed the information to Clark.   
  
She took a deep breath, wincing when her mind touched on the matter that   
her guilty conscience had caused her to avoid thus far. Was it possible   
that Lancelot could have told Clark about the Kiss? *She* had renounced   
Lancelot in her own mind and declared that her love was reserved for her   
husband, but neither Lancelot nor Clark had any way of knowing that. And   
if Lancelot had told Clark about their kiss . . . .   
  
No, no, it wasn't possible. Sir Lancelot wasn't the type to kiss and   
tell. He was reputedly such a gentleman . . . .  
  
Not much of a gentleman in kissing another man's wife, Lois.   
  
But maybe . . . maybe . . . Lancelot's action was so against his character   
that he was wracked with guilt afterwards. He and Clark were reportedly   
good friends, as well as lord and liegeman. Maybe Lancelot had cleared   
his tortured conscience by confessing to his friend that he and Lois had   
kissed.  
  
*He* kissed *me*! thought Lois indignantly. I didn't . . . *participate*!  
  
(You didn't exactly fight him off, either, girl.)  
  
It was over so quickly! I had no chance to show him how much I . . . I   
*disapproved* of it.  
  
(Yeah? You could have slapped his face afterwards, couldn't you? Isn't   
that what a woman's supposed to do when a man insults her by foisting an   
unwanted kiss on her?? And why didn't you explain to him that when you   
said you loved him, it was because you had mistaken him for your husband?)  
  
Okay, okay, so I should have slapped him. That still doesn't give him   
the right to *assume* that I liked it . . . and to tell Clark about it.  
  
But I don't believe he did tell Clark; I don't think he *would*.  
  
So if *he* didn't tell Clark about the kiss . . . who did?   
  
Was Lucy close enough to see that kiss? No, it was dark, she was still   
in the forest, surrounded by trees. Besides, Lucy would **never** betray   
me like that.  
  
Could someone else have been there? Hiding in the shadows . . . one of   
Melwas's men? Melwas? Could he have followed them? Could he have . . .?  
  
She sucked in her breath sharply. Melwas! She had forgotten - he had been   
just outside her room when she had told Sir Lancelot she loved him. Could   
he have overheard her?  
  
If Melwas knew what she had said to Lancelot, then Luthor did, too.  
  
Her blood ran cold.   
  
Luthor would know how to use information like that; he was a master at   
employing a mixture of truths, half-truths and lies to formulate and   
change public opinion. He would know exactly how to distort the facts   
in order to create the reality he wanted people to see, and he certainly   
wasn't above using this particular fact in order to create an estrangement   
between herself and Clark that he could use for his own ends.  
  
If he had somehow let Clark know what Melwas had overheard . . . .  
  
She swallowed.  
  
She had no choice but to tell Clark about what had happened. But . . . .  
  
What if that wasn't the cause of Clark's unhappiness with her? What if it   
was something else that was bothering him and he didn't know anything about   
what she had said to Lancelot?   
  
Or what if he knew what she had *said* to Lancelot, but didn't know that she   
had kissed - that Lancelot had kissed her? If she told him what she had   
*said*, but didn't mention the kiss, and he knew about both . . . it would   
be disastrous.   
  
On the other hand, if she *did* mention the kiss, and he hadn't known about   
it previously . . . omigosh . . . she couldn't tell the King that his best   
friend, the knight who stood for decency and honour, had kissed his wife!  
  
Lois dropped into a chair, her head whirling. This was getting too   
complicated. If only she knew what Clark knew, if only she knew why he   
was acting so cold and distant.   
  
How like him to go into a fit of the sulks without telling me why! she   
thought indignantly.   
  
Well, if Clark wouldn't volunteer the information, she would have to pry   
it out of him. Once she knew exactly what his problem was, she would   
know what to say to set his mind at ease.  
  
She only wished that he would hurry and get back from wherever he was;   
she was beginning to get sleepy. She leaned back in her chair and   
closed her eyes.  
  
She dozed off several times before he came in. The sound of the door   
opening woke her and she opened her eyes, seeing Clark before he noticed   
her. He had a look of weariness on his face, mixed with sadness. She must   
have made a sound, for he looked up suddenly and gave a guilty start when   
he saw her sitting there with her gaze fixed on him. From the hunted   
expression that crossed his face, it looked like he would have liked to   
retreat back out the door again. "Uh . . . you're still awake," he said,   
closing the door behind him.  
  
"We need to talk," said Lois tightly.  
  
Clark winced. "Not tonight, Lois," he pleaded. "I'm tired and-" he   
raked his fingers through his hair. "I'm tired," he repeated firmly. He   
began pulling off his doublet, averting his eyes from Lois's suddenly   
fascinated gaze.  
  
Lois was indeed looking him over, wondering how she could have been so   
blind that she had never observed her husband's magnificent physique   
before. True, she had noted it the time when she had burst into his   
private chamber unannounced, but somehow she had shoved that image to   
the back of her mind, too busy with her fantasy about Sir Lancelot to   
bother noticing the handsome man she had married.  
  
Keeping her gaze on him, she leaned forward slightly, licking her lips.   
She couldn't believe that for the last few months she had been spurning   
the man who was now disrobing in front of her. Strong, kind,   
compassionate - not to mention nice to look at - he was everything she   
could ask for in a man . . . and more. She must have been crazy to   
overlook him. Well, she could make up for it now . . . .   
  
But Clark sat down on the bed and turned his back to her, bending over   
to remove his boots.  
  
In a flash Lois was on the bed beside him. "You could at least tell me   
why you're so upset," she said, trying to get him to open up to her.  
  
"I'm not upset, Lois," he said. His voice was devoid of inflection.   
  
"If it's about Grey Bullock, I'm really sorry," said Lois.  
  
"Grey-? Oh, the horse. No, it's okay, Lois. I told Lucy to tell you-"  
  
"And if you're upset about me leaving the castle that day-"  
  
"No, it wasn't your fault, Lois; I should have explained *why* I didn't   
want you to leave, instead of just ordering you-"  
  
"So what's the problem?"  
  
"There is no problem, Lois. I'm tired and I want to go to sleep." He   
finished removing his clothing and slid under the bed covers, rolling over   
so that his back was to her.  
  
"Clark!!" said Lois angrily. He didn't answer, and his breathing became   
immediately deep and regular.  
  
Lois flounced down beside him, staring at the ceiling. Why wouldn't he   
talk to her?? Maybe if she told him how she felt . . . . "I love you,"   
she said tentatively. There was no response from the man lying beside   
her, and, muttering under her breath, she closed her eyes and prepared   
for sleep.  
  
*******************************************  
  
Clark lay in bed, eyes wide open, while he listened to the regular   
breathing that told him that Lois finally slept. He had heard her   
declaration of love, but it had confused rather than gratified him.   
This was nothing new; Lois was always confusing him.   
  
Truth to be told, Clark often had a hard time understanding his wife,   
particularly in regard to Sir Lancelot. Her crush on the knight had   
amused him at first, but as time wore on, he had found himself becoming   
increasingly irritated, and lately, even before the kidnaping incident,   
he had felt . . . well . . . he guessed he was . . . jealous. Of   
Sir Lancelot. Which was kinda crazy, since he *was* Sir Lancelot.  
  
But Lois didn't know that.  
  
Clark sighed.  
  
What's so great about that knight anyway? He's the exact same person   
*I* am, but Lois loves *him* and not me. But he *is* me. When is Lois   
going to recognize that fact?  
  
Clark shifted uncomfortably in the bed, wondering how his simple deception   
could have led to such a complicated state of affairs. He had fallen in   
love with Lois minutes after meeting her, and thinking that his ardor was   
returned, he had rushed to ask her father for her hand in marriage. It   
had turned out that he was right about Lois being in love with him, too,   
but it was the persona of Lancelot that she had fallen in love with. It   
had been a mistake, as Lois had let him know pretty quickly, not to woo   
her as the King first, but he had thought that she would get over her   
indignation about that as soon as she found out he was the man she had   
fallen in love with. For he had had every intention of telling her that   
he and Sir Lancelot were the same man.  
  
But the night he had started to tell her of his secret pastime, her blatant   
hero-worship of his alter-ego, coupled with the subtle way in which she   
had managed to put *him* down at the same time, had so annoyed him that   
some perverse streak had led him to withhold his secret.   
  
Over time, he had become increasingly glum as her infatuation for the   
great knight didn't diminish. He told himself that he should find her   
steadfastness gratifying - after all, *he* was the object of her   
admiration - but when her behavior showed how underwhelmed she was by   
the King, particularly when she objected so vehemently to the very   
*idea* that he might disguise himself and perform knight-errantry like   
Lancelot did, he had felt that stubborn steak of perversity rise up and   
kill all desire to let her know that *he* was Lancelot. Why, he wasn't   
sure. Maybe it was because he wanted to prove something. Maybe he wanted   
to show her that Clark Kent was as worthy of her love as Sir Lancelot.  
  
Lois had high standards, he knew. Exacting and driven, only the best would   
do for this woman - and rightly so. She strove for perfection in every   
endeavor she undertook, and she expected no less from the man she hoped   
to love. This lady's approbation would not be easily won, and Clark had   
an intense desire to earn it, to prove to her that the King was as worthy   
of her love as was the mysterious knight.   
  
Recently, he had begun to hope that Lois was finally coming around. He   
thought he had garnered her respect, and even, perhaps, her love. There   
had been a soft look in her eye when her gaze rested on him that had   
offered him more encouragement to hope than he would have believed   
possible as short a time as a month ago.   
  
His hopes had been cruelly dashed when she had told Sir Lancelot that she   
loved him. For Lois to have uttered such a treasonous declaration   
(although he didn't think a niggling little detail like treason would   
stop Lois from doing anything she truly believed in), was so unlike   
anything he would have expected from her that he had been staggered.   
  
It looked like the King had lost the battle for Lois's love. Worse, it   
looked like the Queen was ready to throw everything away for the love   
she felt for an errant knight.  
  
Maybe it was time to end the deception before anything disastrous came of   
Lois's seemingly illicit love. Maybe he should let her know that he was   
Sir Lancelot.  
  
Yeah, thereby letting her know that *he* knew that she was two-timing him.  
  
Could cause some awkwardness in their relationship. (Snort.)   
  
Or did his reluctance to let her in on his secret spring from another   
cause? Did he cling to the deception because of the small crumb of   
gratification he got from believing that Lois loved one part of him?  
  
Was he afraid, perhaps, that telling her that Sir Lancelot was nothing   
more than himself in disguise would kill forever the passion she felt for   
himself as the mysterious knight? Maybe her infatuation for the knight   
was as unreal as was Sir Lancelot himself, and telling her about himself   
would make that infatuation vanish like the mists on the moors with the   
morning sun?  
  
It was especially difficult to think of losing her passion now . . . now   
that he had had a hint of what it would be like to hold an ardent Lois   
Lane. The way she had clung to him when she told Sir Lancelot she loved   
him, the way her body had melted into his when he carried her, the way   
she had draped herself against his chest when they had ridden together,   
the way her lips had yielded softly when he had pressed his mouth against   
hers . . . .  
  
He squirmed. If Lois had ever surrendered herself to him like that in   
his persona of the King, if she had ever shown *half* that much passion   
for him, he would have been down on his knees thanking heaven for it.   
  
But the passionate woman who had kissed Sir Lancelot had behaved nothing   
like the wife he had taken to bed, the woman who fulfilled her marital   
duties from an apparent sense of obligation, who behaved as if physical   
intimacy were an unpleasant chore to be carried out through gritted   
teeth . . . .  
  
Why, though, her sudden loving attitude towards him, Clark? Why her   
declaration of love tonight? Why the passionate glances, the hot,   
aroused look in her eyes when she had watched him undress?   
  
If only that look that devoured him so ardently had been real! If he   
had any reason, any straw to clutch at, to believe that the passion in   
her sultry gaze tonight had been sincere-!   
  
He writhed.  
  
He didn't understand this; he didn't understand any of it.  
  
He rolled over onto his back and stared at the ceiling, giving in to his   
bitter thoughts.  
  
***************************************  
Part 2, Sex and Lies, But No Videotape  
***************************************  
  
Lois didn't see Clark the next day, and therefore had ample time to mull   
over his estrangement from her, wondering once more if it had anything to   
do with Sir Lancelot. She went over the events of their relationship again   
and again, many times deciding to confess what had happened between   
herself and the great knight, and each time rejecting that   
decision.   
  
How many times had she heard the old women of the castle advise never   
to tell the man you love of any previous attachments? How many times   
had she heard their assurances that what he didn't know couldn't hurt   
him, but what he *did* know could hurt *you*?  
  
But . . . was this the reason that she forbore to tell Clark? Or did she,   
perhaps, have another reason? Did her reluctance to discuss Sir Lancelot   
with her husband stem from the uncertainty of her own emotions? Did she,   
maybe, still cherish a secret desire for the errant knight?   
  
I . . . *couldn't*! thought Lois, squirming with self-loathing. I *don't*   
want him; I *can't* love him; and I *couldn't possibly* desire him! It's   
one thing to look up to and admire a man who is not the husband you have   
just discovered you are deeply in love with, but it's quite another to   
want that man to take you in his arms and hug you and hold you and kiss you   
and kiss you and kiss you and *kiss* you until your body is weak and   
trembling all over . . . .  
  
Lois bit her lip. She had responded sensuously to Lancelot's kiss; she   
knew she had. She could deny it no longer. In some strange, twisted,   
ironic way, at the same time that she had realised that she was in love   
with Clark, Sir Lancelot had decided that he was in love with her. And   
his love was returned. It wasn't possible, but it was true; she was   
passionately, sensuously, whole-heartedly in love with two men at the same   
time.  
  
Of everything that had happened to her in her young life, this was the   
cruellest, most devastating of all. And she was going to have to bear   
it. Silently. For she was going to tell no one. Not her gentle mother,   
not her sister, and least of all her loving husband. No, she was never,   
never going to let him know about her love for Sir Lancelot. She was   
going to hide her love in order to shield Clark from the hurt that the   
knowledge would inevitably bring.   
  
She loved Clark. She knew that now, knew that she had acted like a fool   
ever since she had met him. She didn't know why he was angry with her   
now, or hurt, but if it was because of Sir Lancelot, then she would have   
to show him that her love for the knight was not going to come between   
them. She would shower Clark with all the caring and devotion that she   
could muster, giving him every attention to show him how utterly devoted   
she was to him. And she would never, ever again talk about or even think   
about Sir Lancelot . . . .  
  
Lois choked back a sob. Coming to a decision, she jerked abruptly away   
from the window. She ran to her wardrobe to fetch a shawl, then slipped   
quietly from her chamber, wending her way to the village by the castle.  
  
*************************************************   
  
Lois was asleep when Clark came to bed that night.   
  
His entrance into the bedchamber woke her, however, and she snuggled up   
to him when he lay down on the bed with her. He smelled of fresh air,   
as he often did when he came home so late at night, and she found herself   
wondering for the nth time what it was that he occupied himself with   
until all hours of the night.  
  
Tossing aside that thought to be dealt with later, she placed a tentative   
hand on his bare shoulder, drawing it back quickly when he flinched.   
"Clar-rk," she said in a low voice, wishing he would respond to her.   
She loved him so much, and it was so unfair that this estrangement should   
separate them just when she had realised it. Sir Lancelot was *not* going   
to come between them, but if Clark thought that that was the case, then he   
was going to have to say something about it. Only after he opened the   
subject would she be free to reassure him of her love. She could tell him   
that she had mistaken Sir Lancelot for him when she had told the knight that   
she loved him. (And if she *didn't* tell him how she had responded to   
the knight's caress, well, that was something that was better left secret.)   
But before she could begin the reconciliation, Clark was going to have to   
open up to her and tell her what was bothering him.  
  
Clark was not in the mood to cooperate, however.  
  
He squeezed his eyes tightly shut and tried to pretend that he didn't   
hear her plea. What was Lois trying to pull, anyway? He knew that she   
was infatuated with Sir Lancelot - she had told him that she loved him,   
had even kissed him - so why was she suddenly getting so lovey-dovey   
with him, Clark?   
  
Probably trying to salve her guilty conscience, he thought sourly.  
  
Funny, he'd respected her more when she had been unabashedly open about   
her love for Sir Lancelot. At least then, she hadn't been a two-timing   
hypocrite.  
  
"Clark!" Lois was speaking, cutting in on his thoughts. Her voice was   
low, throbbing, insistent.   
  
"What do you want, Lois?" he asked in a tone of great disgust.  
  
"I want you to talk to me," cried Lois, trying to keep her lower lip   
from trembling.  
  
"About what?"   
  
"For starters, you could tell me why you're acting like this!"  
  
"Like what?"  
  
"Clark!"  
  
Keeping his back determinedly towards Lois, Clark grasped his pillow with   
both hands and pulled it more firmly under his head.  
  
Lois took a deep breath. "Clark, I told you that I love you! Doesn't   
that mean anything to you?" When he didn't answer, she began running her   
fingertips over his bare skin, hoping to elicit some kind of reaction out   
of him.  
  
"What do you want, Lois?" Clark burst out, desperate to distract her   
before he gave way to feelings he knew he'd regret later.  
  
"I told you–"  
  
"What's the *real* reason? Did you see a horse you'd like to buy . . . a   
horse that's too expensive for your own income? Do you want me to give   
my . . . my *blessing* on some scheme you have planned?" Some scheme   
that you're going to carry out anyway, whether you have my backing or   
not . . . .  
  
"No-o-o," Lois's voice was husky now, deep with unshed tears. "I just   
want . . . you. I want you to love me." Clark gritted his teeth,   
finding it harder to resist that low, pleading voice. He had to resist   
her, though; it was a matter of self-defense. He just didn't think he   
could stand it anymore. Waiting all these months for Lois to fall in   
love with him, only to find out that she was still stubbornly infatuated   
with a fantasy figure that she had imbued with humanly impossible virtues.   
To have her *pretend* to be in love with *him* was heart-rending. What   
was she up to, anyway? Was she trying to cover up her love for Lancelot   
by being overly-solicitous towards himself?  
  
He shuddered.  
  
Lois began kissing him lightly and he tensed his muscles, determined that   
she was not going to get one spark of reaction out of him, that she was   
not going to-  
  
Whoa!  
  
Lois fell to one side as Clark sat bolt upright in bed, somehow lighting   
a candle with lightning speed. Lois sat up beside him, drawing her knees   
up. "How did you - where did you learn *that*??" Clark exclaimed, a flush   
mounting to his face.  
  
"Not from Sir Lancelot!" Lois said quickly.  
  
Clark looked startled. "I didn't think you *did*."  
  
Lois bit her lip. Great, girl; if he wasn't suspicious before, he will   
be now. "I went to a wise woman in the village," she hurried to tell   
him. "I asked her what to do to . . . how to . . . please a man - did   
you like it?"  
  
"I . . . uh . . . well, *yes*, but . . . ." Clark looked dumbfounded,   
and very, very unsettled. He raked his fingers through his hair. It   
wasn't possible that Lois would be going to such lengths just to get   
him to buy her a new horse, nor did he believe that she was trying to   
cover up what she believed to be an illicit relationship - it just didn't   
fit the character of the Lois he knew. Something else was going on here.   
He took a deep breath. "Why is it suddenly so important to you?"  
  
"I already told you, Clark," said Lois, trying to make him understand,   
"I love you."  
  
"Lois, I'd like to believe you, but . . . I . . . can't," said Clark.   
  
He was looking at her with such heartbreak in his eyes that Lois felt   
tears start in her own. She became convinced at that moment that he knew   
*something* of what had gone on between her and Lancelot. But she was   
still in the dark as to exactly what. She hesitated as she considered   
explaining *part* of what had gone on with the knight, considering telling   
him of her mistake in thinking that Sir Lancelot was him.  
  
Before she could speak, however, an expression of frustration crossed   
Clark's face and he interrupted her. "I have to go, Lois," he said. He   
jumped from the bed and began throwing on his clothes haphazardly.  
  
"What do you mean, you have to go?" demanded Lois. But she was talking   
to an empty room.  
  
*************************************************  
  
Clark didn't return that night, and the next day he was called away to a   
nearby province to settle a dispute that had arisen between two   
landholders.   
  
As was usually the case when Lois was feeling troubled, she threw herself   
into her work, losing herself in investigating what she believed to be a   
ploy by the Glenholdens to gain more land for themselves.   
  
Clark could have taken me with him, she thought; he knows that I'm the   
best when it comes to finding out the facts in these cases.   
  
It was true; Lois had an extraordinary ability to ferret out the truth,   
and had taken a more active position in matters of intrigue affecting   
the country than any other Queen in known history.  
  
But Clark was mad at her, she reminded herself, and in his present state   
of mind unlikely to seek her assistance in running his kingdom.   
  
She bit her lip.  
  
****************************************************  
  
Lois prepared for bed alone, as was happening more and more often these   
days. She had just had word that Clark was not expected back until the   
end of the week. She walked restlessly about her bedchamber. It was   
past her usual time for retiring, but she was not at all sleepy.   
  
Giving up the attempt at last, she threw on some outer clothing and   
decided to take a stroll around the grounds. A muffled scream drew her   
to the stableyard, where she almost collided with a young serving girl   
running full speed away from one of the barns.  
  
"Are you all right?" asked Lois, grasping the girl's arm to keep her   
from falling.  
  
"Yes, Miss," gasped the girl. "I was just–" Her eyes widened. "-excuse   
me - Your Highness!" She sketched an awkward curtsy. "I - one of the   
men got a little too fresh with me, if you know what I mean. I took   
care of the problem, though; he won't be bothering me, or anyone else."   
She tossed her head.  
  
"Do you want to make a complaint against him?" asked Lois.  
  
The girl shook her head. "I took care of it," she repeated.   
  
A smile twisted Lois's lips. The girl must have kicked him in a very   
tender place. "If you change your mind, ask for me, personally," she   
said aloud. She nodded at the girl to indicate that she was free to   
go, then continued towards the stables, her pace quickening as she   
suddenly thought of a different interpretation to put on the girl's   
words.   
  
I hope she didn't kill him, thought Lois. Clark wouldn't like it.   
  
And speaking of Clark . . . .  
  
Her eyes widened and a glow of joy suffused her face as she spied him   
standing next to a man who was bent over as if in pain. Clark's back   
was to her and his face was in the shadows, but she had no trouble   
recognizing him; she'd know those shoulders anywhere.   
  
He must have come back early.   
  
The man said something to him, then hobbled painfully away, grimacing.  
  
Lois broke into a run and, hearing her, Clark half-turned. Laughing   
with pure joy, Lois launched herself into his arms, crying, "I'm so   
glad you're here . . . I wasn't expecting you–" The words died on her   
lips when she saw that he was wearing the helmet of the great mysterious   
knight. It wasn't Clark; it was Sir Lancelot.  
  
This isn't fair! It just isn't fair! It's not fair that I've made the   
same mistake twice. He has the same voice as Clark, the same height,   
the same shoulders, the same . . . .  
  
And then Lois knew. And it wasn't a matter of measuring the breadth of   
his shoulders or the girth of that chest, it was simply that . . . this   
man - the strong, kind, man holding her so tenderly in his arms - was   
Clark.   
  
A thousand different thoughts, coloured by a thousand different emotions,   
whirled through her mind - surprise, chagrin, anger - but the overwhelming   
emotion was relief. Relief that she wasn't in love with two men at the   
same time, relief that she hadn't betrayed Clark when she had kissed his   
alter ego, and most of all, relief that he was quite obviously still very   
much in love with her.  
  
For he had received her into his arms gladly, crushing her to his chest   
while he murmured broken terms of endearment.   
  
Lois put her arms around him as all at once everything about Clark's   
behavior in the last few days was made clear. She didn't have to wonder   
any more about whether he knew that Lancelot had kissed her, or whether   
he knew that she had told Lancelot that she loved him. He most decidedly   
knew about both. And had apparently been suffering because of it. But   
*why* he felt this brooding, bitter hurt, she couldn't begin to fathom. It   
wasn't as if she had cheated on *him* . . . so why was he so upset? Come   
to think of it, his whole jealous attitude towards Sir Lancelot from the   
beginning was incomprehensible - how could he be jealous of himself?  
  
And they say *women* are hard to figure.  
  
But no matter how unreasonable it was, the only thing that really  
mattered was that he *was* hurt. Any anger she may have had towards   
him because of his deception vanished, and she didn't care about anything   
except the need to reassure him of her love. Lois hugged him   
unrestrainedly.   
  
All her married life she had been holding back: first holding back from   
Clark because she was in love with Lancelot; then on that fateful night,   
holding back from Lancelot because she was in love with Clark. From this   
moment on there would be no holding back. Half-sobbing, she wrapped her   
arms around his waist and buried her face in his shoulder.  
  
Clark reached up a hand to stroke her hair. And then he stiffened.   
  
He had forgotten momentarily that he was dressed in the persona of   
Sir Lancelot.  
  
He looked down at the dark head nestled against his shoulder and winced.   
He was confused again. Just when Lois's behavior had encouraged him to   
hope that she had fallen in love with Clark, she had begun showing this   
astonishing display of passion for Lancelot. He had known that she was   
volatile (try, *mercurial*), but this beat any of the most erratic of her   
previous behaviors.  
  
He closed his eyes while he fought down his disappointment. When he   
opened them again, it was with determination. This charade had gone far   
enough. Whatever the consequences, whatever her emotions, it was time to   
tell her.  
  
He started to push her away, preparing to confess that he, Sir Lancelot,   
was really her husband.   
  
And then he hesitated. Lois was going to be mad. And likely, considering   
that she was about to find out that her husband had caught her in an act   
which *she* believed to be traitorous, humiliated. Devastated, even.   
Not to mention disappointed that her hero was really only her husband.  
  
It was definitely going to put a crimp in the activity that they were   
about to engage in, maybe forever.  
  
She was hugging him hard now, rubbing against him in a way that inflamed   
his senses. Among other things.   
  
He thought quickly.  
  
I love her.  
  
She's my wife.  
  
If we make love now, we won't be doing anything treasonous, immoral, or   
unethical. Well, okay . . . unethical - on my part.  
  
But is it unethical for a man to make love to his own wife if she   
mistakenly believes that he's someone else? It would be unethical if it   
were the other way around, but ....   
  
I should tell her. I *have* to tell her.   
  
But . . . her fingers were dancing up and down his back, sweeping over   
the backs of his legs, squeezing his thighs. And her slender yet   
luscious form was rubbing against his chest, and her hips were pressing   
against him, wriggling, grinding . . . .  
  
He took a deep breath and threw away the last vestiges of conscience.  
  
Before I tell her . . . I am going to have this one night. One night of   
passion. Just this one time, I will make love to her when she wants me   
unequivocally. She is my wife, and if my wife loves Sir Lancelot, then   
Sir Lancelot is who she'll get.  
  
Sweeping her into his arms, he carried her into the darkened stable.  
  
  
*************************************************  
  
  
What . . . ?   
  
Pain.  
  
A roaring sound. Coming closer . . . . And then . . . .  
  
More pain.   
  
Crippling, stabbing pain.   
  
Never . . . felt . . . anything . . . like . . . this . . . before.  
  
Clark managed to raise his head, staring dazedly at the shadows surrounding   
him. Looking into the aisle below, he saw dimly that many men had come   
into the stable, were running back and forth, lanterns raised as they   
peered into the vacant stalls. It was their voices that were making   
the roaring sound, but he was unable to distinguish the words. Moving   
slowly, his limbs heavy as if drugged, he began pulling on his clothes,   
dimly conscious that Lois was doing the same. He had just managed to   
put on his helmet when one of the men looked up, saw them, pointed.   
The man had a sword in his hand. A sword with a pale green, crystalline   
blade.  
  
Shouldn't have a sword. Shouldn't be pointing. Pointing at Lois.   
Have . . . to . . . protect . . . my wife.  
  
He stood up, swayed, and fell out of the loft and onto the stable floor.   
He tried to lighten his descent, but floating didn't work and he landed   
heavily. The man holding the sword lunged at him, aiming the blade   
directly at his heart. Clark half-twisted as he staggered to his feet,   
but he was unable to completely elude the wicked blade and it pierced his   
arm, going clear through and entering his side. He heard the sound of   
someone screaming in pain, and was surprised to find that it was himself.  
  
He twisted again, wrenching the blade from his assailant's grasp, and making   
a mighty effort, flung the man halfway across the aisle. The would-be killer   
landed awkwardly, grunting in pain as his leg folded under him at an unnatural   
angle.   
  
Clark was dimly aware that Lois in the loft above was shouting something,   
and then several men in palace livery rushed past him, racing for the   
ladder. "There she is! Look to the Queen!" The men were palace guards;   
they would see that Lois was protected. Waves of relief washed over him,   
and he turned his attention back to his own situation. With Lois safe,   
his next concern was protecting Lancelot's identity. He had to get away   
before they discovered who he was.  
  
He whistled for his horse, heard the clatter of hooves as Black Light   
trotted into the stable from the yard, answering his call. Clark staggered   
towards him, the sword still stuck in his flesh. He had almost reached   
the stallion when the man who had stabbed him shouted, drawing his retreat   
to the guards' attention. In an instant he was surrounded by palace guards.   
One of them grasped the hilt of the sword as a convenient handle, trying   
to keep Clark from the horse. Instead, the guard pulled the sword completely   
out of Clark's body, causing the King to cry out in agony. Gasping for   
breath, Clark summoned the last of his strength and hurled himself onto   
Black Light's back.  
  
His hooves striking at the men who surrounded him, scattering them on all   
sides, Black Light trotted swiftly out of the stable with Clark clinging   
to his neck.   
  
*************************************************  
  
"Your Highness!" Lois looked up at the servant girl who had just burst   
into her room. Realising that her entrance had been too abrupt, the girl   
blushed and begged pardon. "I'm sorry, Your Highness, but I'm to tell   
you that they're going to start tomorrow."  
  
"I thought that they were going to wait for the King to return," Lois   
frowned.  
  
"Begging your pardon, Your Highness," said the girl, bobbing a curtsy,   
"but the King is missing."  
  
Lois paled. "Missing? What do you mean, he's missing? He's in Caer Wyn,   
resolving a dispute. Didn't we send messengers to fetch him?"  
  
The girl shook her head, backing away from the dark look in Lois's eyes.   
"The messengers have just come back from Caer Wyn; they report that the   
King is not to be found; he's been missing for - Your Highness? Are you   
all right?"   
  
Lois sank into a chair. "I'm okay," she managed, waving the girl away.   
After shooing the girl out of the room, she buried her face in her hands.   
Clark had never made it back to Caer Wyn; he must have been more severely   
injured than she had thought.  
  
After the girl left her, Lois walked slowly to the window of her chamber   
and gazed out into the courtyard. It had been three days since the   
incident in the stable. Three days, and there was still no news of Clark.   
  
Her face tense with worry, she stared sightlessly at the gray sky.   
  
She didn't know if Clark lived or died.  
  
Why, oh, why, had she let him ride away . . . alone, unattended, perhaps   
to fall off his horse and lie in the forest . . . suffering, lingering   
for days, tormented by thirst, agonized by his wound, and finally . . .   
to die . . . ?  
  
Why hadn't she identified the King to his men? Even if she had been   
unable to stop that misguided knight from stabbing Clark, she could at   
least have seen that he was brought to his chambers, had his wound   
tended, been nursed back to health.  
  
But she hadn't thought he was that badly injured, so her first priority,   
like his, had been protecting his secret.   
  
Her reticence might cost them Clark's life.   
  
And hers.  
  
For, in her initial concern that Clark get away without betraying his   
identity, Lois hadn't considered that to all appearances she had been   
caught in the hayloft with a man who was not her husband. She hadn't   
thought that her actions would be used to charge her with treason.  
  
************************************************  
  
Sir Lancelot and the Queen, caught in a love nest.   
  
It was a setup; Lois was sure of it. In spite of the fact that at least   
*some* of the chain of events had happened by chance, her instincts told   
her that she and "Lancelot" had been set up. The circumstance of their   
being caught in the loft by a *score* of palace guards on a night when   
Clark happened to be away could not be, *must* not be, a coincidence.  
  
For example, why had the man who wielded the green sword, Mog, been so   
quick to accuse Lois and Lancelot of treason? The palace guards who   
dashed into the stable in search of Lois had been fearful for the   
Queen's safety. They had thought that Lancelot was an unknown assailant   
or potential assailant - until Mog had correctly proclaimed that the two  
were willing lovers. He had *known* that they were lovers; he had come  
into the stable to find them and expose them, Lois knew.  
  
She was now convinced that Melwas had overheard her tell Lancelot that she   
loved him and had subsequently reported it back to Lex Luthor. It was  
Luthor who had engineered a trap for the treasonous lovers.  
  
She was so sure of it that, before she was *formally* charged with treason   
and confined to her quarters with liveried guards outside her door at all   
times, before she realised that Clark must have been more seriously injured   
than he appeared, she had spent two days attempting to uncover the plot.   
Disguising herself as a serving woman, she had visited all the taverns and   
other public gathering places in Camelot, as well as many private dwellings.   
She had questioned countless friends and acquaintances, listened for gossip,   
and probed deeply into rumors.   
  
What she had found was highly gratifying to her instinct for investigation,   
if not very reassuring to her peace of mind: in the first place, the   
altercation Clark had gone to Caer Wyn to settle was completely bogus.   
The two men supposedly at each others' throats over a land dispute had   
been best friends and allies for years, and they were also - Lois smiled   
with joyless gratification when she learned of it - reportedly Luthor's   
men.  
  
I *knew* Clark should have taken me with him, she thought with bitter   
satisfaction. Clark is so naive and trusting . . . he would believe anything   
anyone tells him. But *I* would have discovered the sham dispute . . . and   
then we would have had warning that something was afoot.  
  
During her investigation, Lois had also found out about the chain of   
events that had led to her and Clark getting caught in the stable that   
night. She learned that one of her women, Mirta, had gone to the   
Queen's bedchamber in the middle of the night (something her maids had   
*never* done before this week - and Mirta had done it two nights in a row),   
and discovered that Lois was missing. Mirta had told Mog, and he had set   
the entire castle to hunting for their queen, eventually finding her in  
in the stables with her lover.  
  
Mirta, Lois now discovered, was originally from the same province as Lex   
Luthor, as was Mog.  
  
Figuring out how the setup had been planned was easy. Under the   
assumption that the Queen and Sir Lancelot were having an affair, Luthor   
had laid a trap to catch them together. First, he had made arrangements   
for Clark to be safely out of Camelot for a few days. Then, under the   
assumption that Sir Lancelot would take the opportunity of the husband's   
absence to be with his lover, he had sent Mirta into the Queen's chamber   
in the middle of the night, expecting to catch them together.  
  
It was at this point that Luthor's plan hit a snag: Lancelot was never   
found in the Queen's bedroom. But on this particular night, neither was   
the Queen. Hoping that someone would find Her Highness in whatever love   
nest she and Lancelot had retreated to, Mirta had raised the alarm that   
the Queen was missing. And then Luthor's luck changed, since, ironically,   
it was on this of all nights that Lois and Lancelot had decided to   
consummate their love.  
  
He was lucky, too, in that the guards had been led to investigate the   
stables by the tale that an assault had just been attempted on a young   
woman there. Fearful for the Queen's safety, the royal guard had rushed   
to the stables, where they had found a man with their Queen. They had   
attacked him without realizing his identity.  
  
It was Mog who had first identified the man. The knight was Sir Lancelot,   
he said positively. He hadn't seen the man's face, but he knew the horse.   
This was confirmed by the guards at the outer gates, who hadn't stopped   
the lone rider from galloping away because they had recognized the   
horse as Black Light.  
  
Lois had maintained strict silence on the whole subject, refusing to   
confirm or deny that the man was Lancelot, and refusing to say what she  
had been doing with him in the loft. She fully intended to wait for   
Clark so that they could coordinate their stories.  
  
But while she was awaiting Clark's return, one of Luthor's sycophants   
(it hadn't been Luthor himself; he, of course took great care to distance   
himself from the proceedings) to demand that the Queen be charged with   
treason, and she had been so charged, and subsequently confined to her   
chambers while awaiting trial.  
  
Lois had no illusions about the outcome of that trial should Clark not   
appear to exonerate her. She could, of course, take the only defense   
open to her and tell the truth: that she hadn't committed treason   
because the man she had been with was her husband, but without Clark  
to back her up, who would believe her?   
  
In the meantime, some part of her still clung to the hope that she   
could get out of this without revealing Clark's secret. She determined   
to keep quiet for as long as she could, exposing him only if he didn't   
reappear and she needed to do so in order to save her own life. Clark   
would have wanted it so, she knew.   
  
If only she could have any expectation that telling the truth would   
exonerate her, that she would be believed.  
  
I could be the first woman in the history of the world to be executed   
for having an affair with her own husband, she thought wryly.  
  
Sighing, she placed her hands on the window sill, gripping it tightly   
as her thoughts returned to the absent Clark. She wished that during   
the last free days of her life she had bent her energies to looking for   
Clark instead of investigating Luthor's plot, but she hadn't realised   
how seriously her husband had been injured. It had looked like the   
sword pierced his arm - a flesh wound, not likely to be serious, she   
had believed at the time, although she was now chiding herself for that   
cursory conclusion.   
  
She had believed that she hadn't heard from him in the last few days   
because he must have returned to Caer Wyn in his guise as the King. She   
hadn't known that he had never arrived at that village.  
  
Lois wrung her hands.  
  
Incredible for Sir Lancelot to have been thus wounded! Why had his   
fabled power of elusion failed him at that minute? She had seen him   
in action - twice - and each time he had shown an almost magical ability   
to avoid any number of swords thrust at him. In the stable that night   
Lois had not thought to fear for his life; she had just been concerned   
for his secret identity.  
  
The wound must have been more serious than it appeared, or maybe it had   
become infected and he had fallen into a fever. Either way, Clark was   
apparently in serious trouble.  
  
And if he didn't come back to confirm her story, so was she.  
  
************************************************  
  
"Are you ready, Your Highness?" The girl who had entered Lois's chamber   
stood just inside the door. Her tone was respectful enough, but she did   
not meet Lois's eyes. Lois's trial was into its third day now and two   
days of damning testimony against her had already taken its toll. Lois   
was beginning to receive curious looks and sidelong glances not only   
from members of the court, but from servants, too.  
  
If Lois had not already been convinced that the thing with Sir Lancelot   
had been engineered by Lex Luthor, the outrageous testimony being given   
against her would have clinched it.   
  
For two days she had listened to a constant stream of lies about herself.   
She would have thought that the incident in the stable would have offered   
proof enough of her "treason," but someone had gone to a lot of trouble   
to fabricate evidence against her, apparently in the interests of making   
the case airtight.   
  
Lois had watched with increasing wrath as palace staff, many of them   
retainers who had been greatly trusted by Clark, swore to having seen   
her dally with Lancelot in the palace, in the courtyard, while riding   
in the forest.   
  
Lies! All lies. She had seen "Sir Lancelot" exactly two times in her   
life before the stable incident, and the only occasion which had been   
witnessed by anyone still alive was when Sir Melwas had kidnaped her.  
  
Denial was useless. When the first servant had begun telling his   
bald-faced lie, Lois had sprung to her feet, shouting. She had been   
silenced and re-seated by the bailiff, and had spent the remainder of the   
two days sitting in angry silence.  
  
She expected today to be more of the same.  
  
Looking up at the girl, Lois asked the same questions she had asked   
yesterday: "Any word of the King?" and "Have Sir Jonathan and Lady Martha   
arrived in Camelot yet?"   
  
Lois had sent for Clark's foster parents in the hopes that they could   
confirm Clark's identity as Lancelot, if, as it looked increasingly likely,   
it became necessary.  
  
Learning that the answer to both of her questions was "no," Lois bit her   
lip. Initially, she had been so preoccupied with worry about Clark that   
she hadn't had time to be concerned about her own situation. Now the   
situation was beginning to look serious, however.  
  
Snatching up a shawl, she left her chamber, following two guards down   
the corridor. When she left her room, she heard two more guards close   
in behind her.  
  
Once in the Great Room, she took her place in the defendant's chair   
while she tried to survey the chamber without betraying that she was   
doing so. The great hall was thronged with people who were controlled   
by guards. The King's and Queen's thrones on the raised dais at the  
end of the room were vacant, but a sizeable armchair had been placed   
on the top step leading to the thrones, and it was on that armchair   
that Sir Gawain, who was presiding over the proceedings, seated himself.  
  
As the accused, Lois had lost her status as Queen during the trial  
proceedings, and was not allowed to sit on the throne. Instead, she   
was forced to sit on an uncomfortable chair placed on raised scaffolding   
erected just for the occasion. She knew that Clark was trying to   
institute a new policy - the accused is considered innocent until proven   
guilty - and she was beginning to think that that would be a good thing.  
  
During his years as King, Clark had managed to effect *some* changes in   
trial procedure. In the past, if someone had a dispute with the   
government or anyone else, both sides would use military force to decide   
who was right. The court would hold a tournament, with each of the   
disputants hiring a knight to represent them. The knights would battle,   
and whoever won the tournament won the dispute for his master. Thus,   
whoever could afford to hire the better fighter would be declared right.   
  
Clark had changed all that. Now, instead of hiring a fighter to decide who   
was right, both sides would present oral arguments to a court convened of   
knights selected by the disputants. This court would decide, on the merits   
of the case, who should win. Only, instead of arguing their cases themselves,   
the disputants had begun to hire talkers to present their cases for them.   
So whoever could afford to hire the speakers most talented at picking a court   
likely to accept the view of the case that they wished to present, the most   
talented at twisting and distorting facts to fit their case, and most   
eloquent at creating a reality that was appealing to the prejudices and   
backgrounds of the knights who made up the court, would win the dispute.  
  
Lois wasn't sure whether this was an improvement or not.  
  
She had hired Sir Gareth, one of Gawain's brothers, to represent her.   
She had wanted to hire Sir Agravaine, but he apologetically declined on   
the grounds that he was leading the prosecution against her.  
  
Sir Agravaine was considered to be the more persuasive speaker, but   
Sir Gareth was a brilliant strategist. Lois had told him nothing about   
what had happened that night in the stables; Sir Gareth told her it wasn't   
necessary that he know the truth in order to formulate a valid defense.  
  
He had decided to present a line of defense that opened several   
possibilities for Lois's innocence:  
  
First, he was going to present the possibility that the man in the loft   
with her was not Sir Lancelot. The identification of the man himself was   
uncertain, since it had been too dark in the stable for anyone to see his   
crest, and Sir Gareth was going to cast doubt on the horse being   
Lancelot's.   
  
Second, he was going to raise the possibility that the activity that   
Lois and the unknown man were engaged in was not sex.  
  
Finally, Sir Gareth was going to delicately suggest that Clark had been   
a cruel and neglectful husband and that if Lois had turned to another   
man for solace, who could blame her?  
  
He was, of course, going to try to make sure that the knights judging   
Lois had a significant number of closet anti-royalists who were also   
feminists. He wanted jurors who didn't believe in the divine right of   
kings and who thought that death was an inappropriate penalty for a   
woman guilty of infidelity, considering that the same penalty didn't   
apply to men.   
  
Thus, even if they didn't believe in Lois's innocence, Sir Gareth would   
be offering them an opportunity to acquit her. They could *pretend*   
to believe in her innocence so that they could justify a not-guilty   
verdict in accordance with their beliefs that had nothing to do with   
her guilt or innocence in this matter.   
  
When Sir Gareth had outlined his strategy, Lois had said dryly, "So the   
man I was with wasn't Sir Lancelot, or if he was, the reason we were in   
the loft was because we were playing tiddley-winks, or if we weren't   
playing tiddly-winks but were engaging in naughty nookie, then in any   
case there shouldn't be a double standard regarding women's infidelity   
and to hell with primogeniture because who cares if the next King is a   
bastard fathered by a man not from the royal line?"  
  
"I wouldn't put it exactly in those words, but . . . yes. I will, of   
course, suggest that the man in the loft was perhaps a messenger from   
your father or sister, and that you had hurried to the stables to meet   
him in your eagerness to hear the message."  
  
Lois had raised her eyebrows, but offered no further comment on the   
defense strategy. It was probably the best they could do unless they   
blew Clark's secret.  
  
Now, as she stood in the Great Hall, Lois came to attention as the   
bailiff strode to the front of the room, signaling that the proceedings   
were about to begin. "The trial of Lois Lane, Queen of England, and   
Sir Lancelot, Knight of the Round Table, will now continue," intoned   
the bailiff in a solemn voice, and the room began to quieten.  
  
"We'll hear from more of Sir Agravaine's witnesses," said Gawaine,   
nodding to his brother to begin.  
  
"First I'm going to call Betsy, a scullery maid from the King's kitchen,"   
began Agravaine.  
  
"A scullery maid!" Lois burst out, jumping to her feet. "You can't be   
serious! What can a scullery maid know about me, or my relationship with   
the King . . . or with anyone else, for that matter!"  
  
"If it please your Highness, to please sit down and–"  
  
"It doesn't please me!" Lois said angrily. "This whole thing is   
ridiculous. It's nothing but a collection of trumped-up charges. And   
how can you put Sir Lancelot on trial when he isn't even here to defend   
himself? I demand that you wait for him . . . or for the King!"  
  
Sir Gawain looked uncomfortable. "I don't really expect Sir Lancelot to   
show up, Your Highness," he said. "And it looks like the King is not   
going to appear, either. In the interests of expediency, we need to bring   
this trial to a conclusion as soon as possible." Having delivered that   
message, Sir Gawain set his jaw. There were many, and he was among them,   
who believed that the King was purposely staying away because, even in   
spite of Lois's adultery, he was still in love with her and unable to bear   
the thought of sentencing his beloved wife to death. Sir Gawain was   
determined to spare his king as much as possible and to that end, was   
trying to hurry the trial to its conclusion.  
  
"But this whole thing is a travesty!" Lois continued loudly. "We've   
heard nothing but lies for two days!  
  
"Today we're going to hear from the witnesses who were in the stable,"   
said Sir Gawain, giving her a stern look. "Are you going to say that   
the testimony of those eighteen men is all lies, too?"  
  
"I'm going to *say* that if anyone thinks that I committed treason–"  
  
A commotion in the hall outside interrupted her, and a heavy-set guard   
burst into the room. Darting his eyes around the great hall, he   
approached Sir Gawain, indicating that he had something of importance to   
relate. "What is it?" asked Gawain. "Speak, man."  
  
"My Lord, it is believed that Sir Lancelot has entered the palace!" said   
the guard. "His horse, Black Light, has been spotted near the stables–"  
  
"What are you standing there for?" said Gawain sharply. "Send extra   
guards to the stables at once! If you see him, capture him and bring him   
here . . . and tell the men to be careful!" he shouted at the guard's   
retreating back. He clenched his fists. He would have loved to be out   
there with them, to be the man to capture Lancelot and bring him to   
justice. He had once had a great love for the mighty knight, but for   
the man to have betrayed his country, his lord, and his best friend in   
the heart-rending manner he had chosen was a crime so heinous that   
Sir Gawain would have been glad to personally wield the blade that   
cleaved Sir Lancelot's head.  
  
"Gawain," said Lot sharply, "maybe we should increase the security both   
here and in Execution Square. Sir Lancelot may have come to Camelot   
with the intention of snatching the Queen and taking her away to prevent   
her execution."  
  
"You're right; see that it's done, man." Gawain's face was grave.   
  
Lois had stood quietly while all this was taking place. Her heart had   
leaped when the guard reported that Lancelot's horse had been spotted;   
she was almost overcome with relief that Clark was alive. At Lot's words,   
though, she wondered what Clark's intentions were. Would he indeed come   
as Sir Lancelot to spirit her away and hide her somewhere? It would be   
a solution to their current dilemma, perhaps the best solution, since   
all her cogitations over the past few days had failed to come up with a   
workable plan.  
  
Clark could continue to visit her in her hidden location if he came in   
disguise. He could come and see her as Sir Lancelot, if not as the King.   
Maybe he could take her to a convent - no-! She decided that probably   
the convent wouldn't approve of conjugal visits. So, no, not a convent.   
But somewhere else where she could have sanctuary . . . and where Clark   
could still come and visit her. It would break both their hearts to be   
separated like that, but if it was for the good of the country, they   
would have to do it.  
  
He could, of course, come clean to the English people and reveal that he   
was Sir Lancelot, but to Lois, that was unthinkable. The people need a   
hero and if Clark had to stop being Sir Lancelot, which he surely would   
if his identity were revealed (since the King couldn't go around openly   
and rescue people, now that the council had declared that he was too   
valuable to risk in such a manner), then the country would lose one of   
England's most precious symbols of honour and justice.  
  
Swift on the heels of that conclusion, though, came the realisation that   
if Lancelot spirited her away and hid her, England would be losing its   
hero just as surely as if they found out that Lancelot and the King were   
one and the same. How could Lancelot represent honour and justice after   
he had betrayed the King and his country? No, Clark would have to reveal   
all in order to save them both. And yet . . . her heart rebelled at the   
thought of England losing its hero. She tensed in her chair, bending her  
mind once again to the task of finding a solution to the problem that had   
plagued her for days.  
  
Suddenly a mighty shout rose throughout the hall. "The King! It's the   
King!" The roar intensified, and all eyes turned towards the entrance   
way to the Great Hall as the doors were flung open. One of the guards   
marched into the room and shouted, trying to be heard above the tumult,   
"His Majesty . . . the King!" Clark walked unsteadily across the   
threshold and stood there, swaying. He was not wearing the King's armor,   
nor was he wearing Sir Lancelot's crest; he was dressed in a plain tunic   
and leggings, clothing that looked as if it might have come a simple   
yeoman's cottage, as indeed it probably had. He must have taken refuge   
with one of the forest-dweller's, then, and been too ill to ride back to   
Camelot all this time.   
  
Her heart twisting, Lois jumped to her feet and tried to run to him, but   
the bailiff held out an arm, preventing her from leaving the defendant's   
box. "Clark!" she called. But the crowd's shout had crescendoed into a   
deafening roar in which Lois's cry was completely swallowed up.  
  
Clark walked haltingly through the crowd, which swiftly parted to let   
him through. The shouting died away to murmurs as he made his painful   
progress through the aisle cleared by his subjects. Hushed whispers   
began to circulate. "He's ill; see how slowly he walks." "The King is   
not well."  
  
Lois observed his pallor with sinking heart. He looked quite ill; his   
injuries had certainly been more extensive than the flesh wound in his   
arm. Her heart in her mouth, she fixed her eyes on him, giving him the   
most welcoming, gladsome expression she could muster through her worry.   
Clark was not looking at her, however; he kept his gaze on Sir Gawain as   
he slowly advanced to the dais.  
  
Gawain, who had jumped up off his chair and knelt as soon as he recognized   
Clark, got back to his feet and put a supporting arm under Clark's elbow,   
assisting him up the stairs and over to his throne. As soon as he had been   
seated, Clark said, still without looking at Lois, "Why isn't my wife seated   
in her proper place?"  
  
"Sire, Her Highness is–" began Sir Gawaine. He broke off, biting his   
lip, and gestured to the bailiff to escort Lois to her throne beside the   
King's. Still, Clark did not look at her.   
  
Lois wondered what Clark was planning to do. If he intended to keep   
Lancelot's secret, it was risky for him to come to Camelot on Lancelot's   
horse and to show himself when he was obviously wounded; people were   
going to make the connection that the two were one and the same. It   
would have been better if he had worn Sir Lancelot's disguise - but, no,   
that was impossible. Sir Lancelot would have been arrested, tried, and   
executed with her. What was Clark planning to do . . . he wasn't going   
to reveal his secret, was he? She hoped not; with Clark's appearance,   
the answer to their dilemma had been revealed to her in a blinding flash.   
She wished she could talk to him before the proceedings went any further.   
  
She strained to hear Clark's voice when he began speaking again: "Tell   
me what's going on, Sir Gawaine."  
  
"Your Honour," said Gawaine with a very red face, obviously uncomfortable   
with the task set before him, "I regret to inform you . . . ." He cleared   
his throat and then continued, staring straight in front of him and not   
looking at Clark, "We are conducting a trial to determine if Her Highness,   
the Queen, committed treason against the Crown."  
  
"She didn't," Clark said shortly.   
  
Lois felt an icy chill go up and down her spine. Clark's voice was so   
cold . . . was he mad at her? He hadn't looked at her since he entered   
the hall. He obviously had the intention of rescuing her from her   
current dilemma, but he didn't look at all pleased with the situation.   
She supposed that she should be glad that he wasn't going to let her get   
convicted of treason, especially since she wasn't guilty, but she wanted   
some sign from him that his exoneration of her came from more than his   
sense of justice.   
  
But Clark didn't know that *she* knew that she wasn't guilty, she   
reminded herself. He must really think that she would cheat on him . . .   
that she *had* cheated on him - in her own mind, at least. Maybe he was   
wondering if she would cheat on him with someone who wasn't really him.   
  
Or maybe he blamed her for causing the demise of Lancelot and the   
exposure of his secret.  
  
"Sire," Gawaine said gently in response to Clark's assertion, "That's   
what this trial is to decide." He placed a hand on his sword hilt,   
fidgeting with it nervously. "If Your Honour wishes to be apprized of   
the evidence that has been given so far, the court can take a recess   
and continue the trial after you've had a chance to review what has   
transpired. We can reconvene after–"  
  
"There's no need," said Clark. "I'm dismissing the charges against   
the Queen."  
  
There was a collective gasp from around the crowded room, and Mordred,   
the man who had been leading the charges against the Queen, sprang   
forward. "You can't do that!" he said angrily. "The Queen was caught   
committing treason in a hayloft with Sir Lancelot, and eighteen   
witnesses can attest to that fact!" There was another gasp from the   
crowd, since many of the onlookers had not heard that most damning piece   
of evidence against Lois.   
  
Sir Gawaine spoke sternly to Mordred, "Quiet, man; you're speaking out   
of turn. That information was to be presented as evidence–"  
  
"But if the King dismisses the charges, the evidence will never be heard–"  
  
"I *am* dismissing the charges," Clark interrupted. "The Queen didn't   
commit treason." He paused, weighing his words carefully, and added,   
"I'm the man who was in that hayloft."  
  
A great murmur of voices rose at that, the sound swelling to a high   
pitch.   
  
Lois bit her lip. Was he planning to reveal that he was Sir Lancelot?   
Or had he arrived at the same solution to their problem that she had?   
  
"Impossible!" said Mordred. "Sir Lancelot was identified positively.   
It was Sir Lancelot who was in the loft; he rode away on his own horse."   
Recalling himself to his surroundings and realising that his tone was not   
properly respectful of the King, he moderated his voice somewhat and added,   
"We are aware of Your Highness's great love for your wife, but you are   
ill and perhaps can't recall recent events very clearly. If you reflect   
on it, you'll realise that what you just said isn't possible. Sir Lancelot   
was injured while trying to escape and would have the wound to prove it."   
It was obvious that Mordred was saying, and not very subtly, that Clark   
was lying to protect Lois, and a gasp went up among some in the crowd at   
his audacity.  
  
Clark smiled grimly at Mordred's words and rising to his feet, began to   
remove his tunic. Since it was obvious that he was having trouble,   
Sir Gawain sprang to help him, as did Lois. Clark looked at neither of   
them, although he accepted their help in disrobing.  
  
There was another gasp from the crowd when his wounds were revealed: a   
slash on each side of his left arm, and another gash in his left side.   
The injuries looked ugly, as if they were not healing well.  
  
After standing still for a minute, letting everyone look their fill and   
verify that he had truly been injured by a sword, Clark silently struggled   
back into his clothing, still not looking at Lois.  
  
Mordred was the first to break the silence that ensued after Clark   
finished dressing. "The King may have been wounded," he said, addressing  
the room at large, "but so was Sir Lancelot. He was positively   
identified that night. He was wearing *his* armor and riding *his*   
horse–"  
  
"*I* was wearing Lancelot's armor," said Clark. "And *I* was riding   
Lancelot's horse." At his words the Great Hall became so quiet that   
one could have heard a banner flutter from the nerveless hand that   
held it.   
  
"What reason would the King have for doing such a thing?" protested   
Mordred.  
  
Although it was obvious that it pained him, Clark drew himself to his   
full height. In a quiet voice he said, "The reason I was dressed as   
Sir Lancelot is because I *am*-"  
  
"-because he had to come to Camelot in disguise," Lois interposed,   
springing swiftly forward and laying reassuring fingers lightly on   
Clark's arm.   
  
"What-! What tale is this?" roared Mordred, among the general hubbub   
that arose at Lois's statement.  
  
"It's no tale," said Lois, raising her chin proudly. "The man who was   
with me in the stables that night was my husband, the King."  
  
"Do you really expect us to believe that?" spat Mordred, forgetting to   
whom he was speaking. "Why would the King disguise himself as   
Sir Lancelot? This is a fairy tale made up to cover up your treasonous-"  
  
Clark made a violent movement, but before he could speak, Lois had   
rushed to the edge of the dais and launched into a tirade against   
Mordred. After expounding at length on the unfounded charges he had   
brought against her and England's most honoured knight, she favoured   
him with her opinion of him, his manners, and his morals, and wound   
up her diatribe by laying open her suspicions that he was nothing   
more than one of Lex's cat's-paws and hinting at the dire fate in store   
for him if he didn't switch his allegiance to the only true King.   
  
Clark had sunk back into his chair when Lois began her homily and he   
slumped, exhausted, while she continued. Although he winced visibly at   
her choice of adjectives, there was a gleam of rueful amusement in his   
eye. He was glad she was spewing that vitriol at Mordred and not himself,   
and hoped that she would wear herself out on that traitor; if she did so,   
hopefully she wouldn't have any energy left to start on *him*. Much   
as he loved her, even in full rant mode, he didn't think that he was   
up to listening to her harangue him about keeping his secret from her -   
at least, not tonight.  
  
He wondered if she had figured out yet that he really *was* Sir Lancelot,   
or if she was just playing along and following his lead. Sooner or   
later she was going to figure it out, and he just hoped that she wouldn't   
hate him for everything he had put her through. She certainly had reason   
to do so. Not only had he concealed his secret life from her, but he   
had let her audibly idolize Sir Lancelot without revealing that   
Sir Lancelot was himself, and - the crowning indignity - he had made   
love to her in the persona of the knight.   
  
The deception alone was ample cause for her to be angry with him, not to   
mention that revealing who Lancelot really was would inevitably bring her   
image of the great hero crashing to earth.   
  
Add to all that the fact that she had been brought up on treasonous   
charges because of his ill-judged act in making love to her in the stable   
that night, and he judged that Lois had plenty of reason never to speak   
to him again.  
  
He cursed the impulse that had led him to continue his deception after   
they were married (his stubborn pride!) . . . and still more did he   
curse the impulse that had led him to make love to her as Sir Lancelot.   
If he had not done so, this would never have happened.   
  
But he really couldn't regret what they had done that night in the   
stable. Lois, freed of her inhibitions, had proven to be every bit as   
fiery and passionate as he had always dreamed that she would be.  
  
Watching her slender form as she continued her animadversions on   
Sir Mordred, he lapsed into memories of that wonderful night, and as   
he did so, some of the color came back into his face.  
  
He was brought back to awareness of the present circumstances by the   
hushed stillness that fell on the gathering as Lois completed her speech.   
It was Sir Gawain who dared to break the silence. "Your Highness,"   
he said, bowing to Lois with great deference, "With all due respect,   
I would like to point out that Sir Mordred had a reasonable question:   
why did the King and Sir Lancelot switch places? Not that I'm   
questioning that they did so," he added hastily to quell the returning   
fury in Lois's eye, "if His Highness the King and you both attest to   
it, that's good enough for me . . . but I'm sure we are all wondering   
why the King in his great wisdom deemed such a thing necessary."  
  
Clark glanced quickly at Lois, but she didn't look at all disconcerted.   
"If you would all just *listen* to me, instead of jumping in and   
asserting that it couldn't possibly be true," she looked pointedly at   
Sir Mordred, "you'll find out." Seeing that she had their attention,   
she took a deep breath and commenced with the cover story she had   
just concocted.  
  
"The King, as you well know, was away on business in the village of   
Caer Wyn. What you *didn't* know is that Sir Lancelot was out of the   
country - and still is." She smiled with satisfaction at the murmur   
of astonishment that arose at her words. "The King has sent him on a   
mission . . . a holy mission of such secrecy that even now I'm not at   
liberty to reveal what it is."   
  
"Your Highness," said Sir Mordred, his tone noticeably more deferential  
towards Lois than it had been a few minutes previously, "that still   
doesn't explain why the King assumed Sir Lancelot's guise and returned   
to Camelot."  
  
"Are you going to let me finish, or not??" said Lois crankily. Clark   
grinned openly. "While in Caer Wyn, the King discovered that the dispute   
he had gone there to settle was bogus." Lois paused and noted with   
satisfaction that Mordred looked distinctly taken aback.   
  
Behind her, Clark was gazing up at Lois with a gleam of admiration. So  
she, too, had discovered that the dispute was bogus! He had found that  
out himself, but he wouldn't have dreamed it possible that Lois could  
have done so, too.  
  
He could see that he had vastly underrated her. He was going to have to   
appoint her as chief investigator for the Court. That is, he reminded   
himself glumly, if she was still speaking to him when this was all over.  
  
Lois continued: "The King realised that the phony dispute in Caer Wyn   
must be a decoy, to lure him away from Camelot."  
  
From Mordred's expression, Clark could see that the King wasn't the only   
one who was in the process of revising his opinion of Lois.  
  
"The King decided to return to the palace secretly," Lois went on, "and   
the best way to do that and gain entry through the gates was to disguise   
himself as Lancelot. He had already sent word to me that he was coming   
and I went to the stables to meet him. As for what happened next . . .   
I . . . well, I guess I had missed my husband while he was gone . . . ."   
She lowered her head to hide her blushes while a murmur of amusement swept   
through the room.  
  
We've won, thought Clark exultantly, surveying the Great Hall. Not that   
there was any question that he was going to dismiss the charges against   
Lois; he had made that clear already - but he found it cheering that the   
people appeared to be fully prepared to believe Lois's story, thus   
exonerating her in their minds, as well as in the eyes of the law.  
  
He looked at Sir Mordred and was satisfied to see that the knight looked   
stymied. Funny, though, how far away Sir Mordred looked all of a sudden.   
In fact, the whole room looked farther away. He sank lower in his chair.   
  
Sir Gawain strode to the front of the dais and respectfully taking Lois's   
arm, led her back to her seat. Once she had been seated, he turned to the   
gathering. "Well, men," he bellowed, "ye've heard the Queen's   
explanation . . . ye've seen the King's wounds . . . and ye've heard the   
King's pronouncement: ALL CHARGES AGAINST THE QUEEN ARE DISMISSED!"  
  
The crowd erupted.  
  
But somehow their shouts seemed very far away to Clark. He was dimly   
aware of a commotion at the doorway, and he heard a well-loved voice   
calling, "My boy! Where's my boy?" Immediately followed by a female   
voice: "My son is hurt; I demand to see him at once!" There was a   
scuffle and Clark watched helplessly while a diminutive woman beat   
back one of the guards, winning passage through the crowd only after   
she had been recognized.  
  
"It's the King's foster parents! Make way for Sir Jonathan and Lady Martha   
of Kent!" A path opened through the cheering crowd and within seconds   
his parents were hovering over him as he sank still lower. He felt himself   
slipping out of their hands.   
  
Lois, he thought, where's Lois? She must be mad at me . . . of course   
she's mad at me . . . can't blame her . . . love her . . . Lois . . . .  
  
****************************************************  
  
Sharp, stabbing pain, followed by a burning sensation, and then something   
cool flowing over the hurt. Soothing, healing. And then wrapped in   
something warm and soft.   
  
The pain eased. He became aware that he was lying down, and that someone   
was holding his hand. It felt good, that hand. He relished the touch of   
the fingers against his skin.   
  
Voices, speaking softly. At first he couldn't understand what they were   
saying, but when he concentrated, the indistinguishable murmurs diverged,   
forming into words.  
  
"How is he?" His mother's voice, slightly tremulous. Mom . . . . he   
thought, warmed by her presence.  
  
"He should be more comfortable, now that I've dressed his wound. I've   
applied a poultice to draw out the poison." Clark opened his eyes and   
blinked, startled at the bright light that was blinding him. The light   
wouldn't stay still, but kept whirling in dizzying circles. He brought   
all his will to bear on making the light stop, and as he focused, the   
light steadied and sharpened, revealing itself to be a torch that the   
physician's assistant was holding over him. It was the court physician   
who was speaking, his voice grave.  
  
"Is he going to be all right?" His father, standing off to one side.   
Clark tried to turn his head to look at him, but quickly found that that   
was a mistake since the room began moving in dizzying circles again. He   
closed his eyes. He had seen enough to know that he was lying on the bed   
in his bedchamber. It had been a long time since he had lain in that bed.   
Not since he married Lois . . . . He bit his lip.  
  
"He's awake!" His mother's voice again. "How do you feel? Clark?" Her   
voice was sharp with concern.  
  
"Mom," he said. At least, that's what he tried to say, but it came out   
more like "Mmmmph."  
  
"Clark, look at me," commanded his mother.  
  
"Martha, give the boy some time," his father protested.   
  
Clark opened his eyes and was relieved that this time the room remained   
steady. "Mom, when did you come to Camelot?" he asked. His father made   
a sound while his mother gasped in relief. The hand holding his   
tightened.  
  
"Is he going to be all right?" his mother asked the physician.  
  
The doctor stroked his beard thoughtfully while he formulated a reply.   
This was the first time he had ever been called to attend the King and   
he was conscious of the responsibility entailed. "The wound itself isn't   
that serious," he said cautiously, "but it got infected somehow. If the   
poison leaves him and the injuries heal properly, he should be all right."   
Martha and Jonathan sighed thankfully, but the Queen's sharp eyes that   
were fastened on him told him that she hadn't been fooled a bit by the   
equivocation in his reply. What he had essentially said was that if the   
King recovered, then he would recover, a meaningless statement. And   
Lois Lane knew it.   
  
The physician thought that this would be a prudent time to withdraw, and   
he did so, beckoning to his assistant to follow. "We'll let nature take   
its course," he pronounced before he exited, avoiding the Queen's sardonic   
gaze.  
  
"Clark, what happened?" asked Martha as soon as the two men had left the   
room. "How is this possible? You've never been hurt before!"  
  
"Never been hurt before!" echoed Lois. "What do you mean?"  
  
Ah, so Lois was here. A wave of warmth swept over Clark. He turned to   
look at her. She was gazing at him with unshed tears in her eyes and she   
didn't look at all as if she hated him. It was she who was holding his   
hand. His fingers quivered involuntarily in her palm, and she gripped   
his hand convulsively.  
  
"Are you going to be all right, Clark?"  
  
"How can he know that, Martha? - he's never been hurt before. Even the   
doctor doesn't know. What he said-"  
  
"I heard him," snapped Martha. "And of course he doesn't know. How can   
he know anything about our boy? No one does."  
  
"I doubt if Clark knows either, then, so it's no use asking him. How are   
you feeling, son?"  
  
"What do you mean, he's never been hurt before?" Lois repeated.  
  
"Because of his invulnerability," Martha said, removing her eager gaze   
from her son for an instant. "What do you think, Clark? What happened?"   
She gave Lois a closer look. "He did tell you about his invulnerability,   
didn't he?" At the bafflement in Lois's face, she looked back at Clark   
again. "Clark?"  
  
"No," Clark managed weakly. "I didn't tell her."  
  
"But . . . she must have been so worried." There was a look in his   
mother's eye that he didn't like, and Clark squirmed. "With you spending   
half your time careening around the countryside as Sir Lancelot-"  
  
"He didn't tell me that, either," interrupted Lois. "But I knew anyway,"   
she added hastily, thinking of their interlude in the hayloft. "I figured   
it out."  
  
Clark switched his gaze to Lois. She knew. So that night in the stable . . . .   
He swallowed. Impossible.  
  
Martha looked from one to the other. "You didn't tell her that you were   
Lancelot? She had to figure it out? What were you thinking, Clark?"  
  
"Now, Martha, whatever our boy did or didn't do, I'm sure he had his   
reasons," Jonathan interposed. He put his arm around his wife's shoulders.   
"What I want to know, is what happened to him . . . why did he lose his   
invulnerability? Do you know, Clark?"  
  
"No," said Clark weakly. "I lost my super powers, too."  
  
"Lost your-?" Martha said, and at the same time, Lois said, "Super   
powers??"   
  
Jonathan glanced from Lois's puzzled face to Clark's drawn one, then   
looked significantly at Martha. "Why don't you and I go to our rooms   
now?" he suggested. "We can figure this all out tomorrow."   
  
Martha looked like she was about to say something, but she changed her   
mind. She bent to give Clark a kiss on the forehead and whisper that   
she loved him.   
  
"We'll see you tomorrow, Clark. Lois," said Jonathan.   
  
"Sleep well," said Martha. "You'll feel better in the morning," she   
added optimistically.  
  
***************************************************  
  
Left alone, Lois and Clark looked at each other. "Clark-" "Lois-" they   
said at the same time.  
  
"Lois, I'm so sorry," said Clark, squeezing her hand and looking up at   
her contritely. "For everything I've put you through. If I had told   
you about Sir Lancelot, none of this would have happened - the accusations   
against you, the trial. But I swear to you that I had no idea that you   
had been arrested. I came as soon as I heard."  
  
"I know," said Lois softly. "And as sick as you are . . . ." She wrapped   
both her hands around his and raised his hand to her lips, kissing it   
tenderly.   
  
Clark closed his eyes briefly. "There's so much I have to tell you," he   
said when he could open them again. "The super powers . . . ."  
  
"What are 'super powers?'" asked Lois. "Oh, never mind that now," she   
said, believing that it was probably some Kentian euphemism, like   
'invulnerability,' for Lancelot's much-vaunted prowess with arms. "I   
just want to know-"  
  
"I'll tell you everything," Clark promised. "About me, about   
Lancelot . . . ."  
  
"Why didn't you tell me?" Lois interrupted. "That you were Lancelot?"  
  
A flush mounted to Clark's face. "I was going to tell you right after   
we got married," he said shame-facedly. "But you were always talking   
about Lancelot, how decent he was and how good . . . you had built him   
up into such a perfect person, and I didn't think I could ever measure   
up to him. And . . . I guess . . . I wanted you to love *me* as much as   
you loved that imaginary knight."  
  
Lois maintained a thoughtful silence for several minutes. "I did love you,   
Clark," she said finally. "I just wouldn't allow myself to see it. I   
guess it's because of what happened with Claude, the man who trifled with   
me - I told you about him." Clark nodded, his brow darkening, and Lois   
went on. "I pretty much gave up on men after that," she said. "But when   
I met Sir Lancelot, he seemed different. The one perfect man. A man   
with no faults, a completely pure and perfect human being totally devoted   
to performing acts of disinterested good. A man who didn't experience the   
lesser human emotions of hate and greed and lust, only the good ones of   
love, compassion, and devotion." Lois took a breath before continuing.   
"That changed on the night that he - you - kissed me. After that night,   
I learned that Lancelot was human. After you kissed me, I wondered   
sometimes if he wasn't just taking advantage of the situation. After all,   
you thought that I had told him that I loved him."  
  
Clark frowned. "*Thought* you told him . . .?" he said, trying to follow   
this narrative, with all its mixed pronouns.  
  
"When I heard your voice, asking me if I was all right, I recognized it   
as *your* voice, Clark's," Lois explained. "I was horrified when Melwas   
shone the torch in the room and I saw that it was Sir Lancelot and not my   
husband."  
  
"Ahhh . . . ." Clark relaxed back against the pillows, in some way   
relieved. "So that's why . . . . You thought it was me . . . ."   
  
"Anyway, after that night, which, incidentally, was when I first realised   
how deeply I had fallen in love with you-" she squeezed his hand, and   
Clark smiled in bewildered gratification, "I started to see then that he   
was a real man. Like you told me once, 'he could be anybody.' Only, of   
course, he was still kinder than most. More caring. More dedicated to   
making the world a better place."  
  
"Lois-" said Clark.  
  
"You, on the other hand," Lois continued as if she hadn't been interrupted,   
"I always knew that you were human, and I simply assumed that you had all   
the usual human failings of men. It wasn't until I got to know you that I   
started to realize that I was wrong. Oh, you were human, all right, you   
*are* human, but you're more than that. Kinder and more caring than any   
man I have met in my whole life–"  
  
"Lois . . . ." said Clark, squirming in a mixture of embarrassment and   
pleasure at the unaccustomed praise.  
  
"When I saw you that night at the stables, I thought that it was you   
again, not Sir Lancelot. And then suddenly - I don't know how - I knew   
that it *was* you, *and* Sir Lancelot." She gazed down at him tenderly.  
  
Clark let out his breath in a long sigh. "Uh . . . ." he said   
helplessly.   
  
"I love you," she told him. "Both of you."  
  
"Lois . . . I can't believe you're taking it like this," he told her.   
"You should be mad at me . . . should want to kill me or something."  
  
"I probably will . . . later," Lois confessed. "But right now . . . I've   
been so worried about you that I'm just glad to have you back." She knelt   
beside the bed and rested her forehead on his good shoulder.  
  
  
****************************************************  
  
She didn't hate him, she loved him. She forgave him for everything he   
had done, for embroiling her in a treason court case. She was smart, she   
was beautiful, she was his wife. And when she made love with all her   
heart, she was . . . unbelievable.   
  
He should tell her more about himself, about his invulnerability - er,   
his former invulnerability - and about his secret powers.   
  
But her dark hair was falling over his hand, the wisp-light touch   
tantalizing him. And the memory of the feel of her soft skin under his   
hands was making him long to touch her again. And the ghost of images   
from that wild night in the stables was driving him mad . . . .  
  
"Make love to me, Lois," he whispered. He was still holding onto her   
hand and he tugged at it now, seeking to pull her onto the bed.  
  
"We can't! You're too sick," said Lois, gently resisting him.  
  
"I'm not sick," insisted Clark.   
  
His eyes were burning with an intensity that Lois found hard to withstand.   
She shook off the feeling his gaze evoked in her, out of concern for his   
condition. "How can you even be *thinking* about that at a time like   
this!" she said, half-laughing, half-exasperated.   
  
"I'm thinking about it," he assured her.   
  
"We'll wait until you feel better and then–"  
  
"I'm feeling better *now*," Clark interrupted. "And I'll feel even better   
after we've made love." He began struggling to sit up.  
  
"Clark!" cried Lois in real alarm. "Don't try to get up. You need to   
rest." She laid a hand on his head, seeking to push him back. His skin   
felt hot to her touch and his eyes were sunken deep within hollow sockets.  
  
"I want to hold you," said Clark.  
  
"You can hold me," said Lois. Quickly she drew back the covers and slipped   
into the bed beside him, snuggling up gently against his good side.  
  
"I love you," said Clark, slipping his good arm under her head. "I've   
loved you from the first moment I saw you. You were standing there   
beside your horse, surrounded by those thugs. You, a small, unarmed   
woman, were standing up so bravely to a ruthless gang of thieves and   
murderers. You didn't love me then, but–"  
  
"Yes, I did," protested Lois. "I loved you, too, Clark."  
  
"-but at that moment I knew that I loved you."  
  
"I *did* love you, Clark, I *did* love you! Don't you remember that   
I told you - the King - that I loved Sir Lancelot? And he's *you*."  
  
"He's not me," protested Clark  
  
"Yes, he is," said Lois firmly.   
  
"But you didn't love *me* . . . you just loved *him* – okay, you just   
loved *that side* of me. And I've been waiting for you to love me so   
I could make love to you and now you do love me, so–"  
  
"When you're better, Clark," said Lois, laughing as she pushed his hand   
away. "And anyway, we already made love that night in the stables,   
remember? I knew that I loved you then."  
  
"But it wasn't me, it was Sir–"  
  
"*I* knew that it was you–"  
  
"*I* didn't know it," said Clark stubbornly. "I didn't know you knew.   
It's not the same. I want to make love to you with you knowing and me   
knowing you know." He rolled onto his side, wincing a little from the   
pain.  
  
"No, Clark, lie down . . . ." said Lois breathlessly, trying to get him   
to lie on his back again. She was desperate to stop him from doing   
something that she was sure was beyond his strength. She wondered   
fleetingly if she should go and get his mother. But the Kents had   
traveled a long way and were doubtless enjoying a well-deserved rest.   
  
Clark had removed his good arm from beneath her head and was fumbling   
with her clothing. In his feverishness, he seemed determined to   
accomplish his goal. "Clark," she said again, "If you lie still,   
I'll . . . I'll show you something that the village wise woman showed me."  
  
"Is that the . . . what you were doing the other night? Before I went   
away to Caer Wyn?" asked Clark, showing signs of interest in complying   
with her request at last.   
  
"Yes. Now lie back down. That's it. Good. I'll just–oomph!" The last   
was said as Clark suddenly snatched her and pulled her down onto his chest.   
Shifting his grip to the back of her head, he drew her up and kissed her.   
"Stop that!" said Lois crossly, trying to push herself away.   
  
"Kiss me, Lois," said Clark huskily. ". . . like you love me."  
  
"I *do* love you," said Lois quickly. She hastened to demonstrate,   
taking his face between her hands and pressing warm kisses to his lips.  
  
"I want to make love to you," said Clark for the third time. He began   
nuzzling behind her ear.  
  
"Yes . . . ." said Lois breathlessly. She stroked her hand gently through   
his hair. "But you mustn't strain yourself. Shh–" she said as Clark began   
to protest. "We'll figure something out."  
  
"Yes," said Clark, satisfied at last, "-figure something out."  
  
  
***************************************************  
  
Clark's attendant, Ban, knocked at the door an hour later. Receiving no   
answer, he opened it a crack and peered cautiously inside. What he saw   
brought a smile to his lips. Clark was lying on his back with one arm   
around Lois. He looked exhausted, but content. Lois was snuggled up to   
his good side and they were both fast asleep.  
  
The retainer approached the bed quietly, creeping on silent feet. The   
lovers were mostly covered, but their shoulders were bare. Reaching down   
a silent hand, Ban gently pulled the quilt up to their necks, then   
withdrew from the room as silently as he had entered.  
  
He was smiling as he made his way down the hall to the servants' quarters.   
There were those who said that the King was lying about being in the   
stables that night, that he had wounded himself with his own sword in  
order to save the Queen's honour, but he, Ban, knew better. While he had   
no doubt that the King wouldn't hesitate to inflict such a wound on himself   
to protect his beloved wife, he knew quite well that in this case there had   
been no need. It was unthinkable that the lady would ever contemplate   
being unfaithful to her husband; it was obvious that she loved him. Ban   
had known that from the day when Lady Lois had burst into the King's   
bedchamber so unceremoniously. Only a woman deeply in love, who knows   
that she is loved herself, would have had the confidence to intrude into   
the King's private quarters so freely.  
  
She had shown her love for the King many times and in many different ways   
since then, too. Ban had often noticed the soft expression in her dark   
eyes when she looked at him. He had seen how frequently she had touched   
the King, had patted, stroked, and fondled his arms, shoulders, and chest.   
If the lady had been any woman other than the Queen, he would have said in   
vulgar parlance that she couldn't keep her hands off him!  
  
No, the uninitiated could speculate as freely as they liked, but as for   
people in the know, they would smile wisely and continue on their way.  
  
*  
  
In the room Ban had just left, Clark stirred and opened his eyes. He   
had just had a dream in which Lois told him that she loved him, and when   
he woke, it was to find Lois nestled against his side. Using his good   
arm, he tightened his hold and pulled her closer. After dropping a kiss   
on the top of her head, he closed his eyes and sighed. The sigh was one   
of pure contentment.   
  
The End  
  
With thanks - and apologies - to Mary Stewart, T.H. White, and of course,   
Thomas Malory. I used some of their characters and ideas, as well as the  
title for the story, but no infringement of any property rights is intended.  
  
Thanks also to Lois McMaster Bujold for the quote which I used from her   
novel, "The Vor Game." (And thanks to Pam, whose web page got me started   
on reading Bujold's fantastic series.)  
  
  
  



End file.
